No One Wants to Know You When You're Crashing Down
by arsenickiss221
Summary: Sherlock was burning away in spectacular fashion. His veins felt vibrant, his thinking lucid, the world around him so absolutely dull compared to cocaine and chemistry and Victor. Victor was the greatest high of all. All the ups without any of the downs. Victor Trevor was simply addicting. And Sherlock Holmes was a textbook addict."
1. Prologue

Sherlock never meant to make himself infamous at uni. His survival mechanism, engrained in him from a young age, was to do exactly the opposite. _Make yourself small. Hide. Let no one see you. _Making oneself into a sort of on-campus celebrity broke all those rules and then some. Mycroft would be furious when he found out (and he would, inevitably, find out, the prodding sod). Of course, he didn't really care what the fat bastard thought, or whether he was furious or not, but it would doubtlessly be tedious and largely inconvenient. And to be fair, Mycroft was already righteously pissed off about the instance leading up to the infamy. Probably was too focused on _that _bit to have foreseen the inevitable circulation of the story, and honestly, it would have been so easy to have put his political foot down at the campus newspaper and made sure no one wrote up about the strange eccentric genius who jumped out of a window while tweaked out of his mind.

Honestly, the article was over exaggerating to a large degree. Campus newspapers were worse than celebrity tabloids in that; all the skiving journalist majors trying to one up each other to find the juiciest story. That competition gave way to a lot of sensationalist writing, in Sherlock's opinion.

He hadn't been _tweaked out of his mind_.

He _had_ snorted coke, as he always did when his mind was incapable of focusing and his brain felt like it was shattering into a million small fragments, each piece tangible and interesting enough to take up some of his attention until he was spread so thin he felt like imploding. And yes, he perhaps had done two massive lines as opposed to the moderate intake he was used to. But it hadn't been that bad; he obviously hadn't overdosed. Just decided that his focus would be best turned to testing physics equations about velocity, momentum, and free fall.

Honestly, no one who was _out of their mind_ would have been able to use their drug-addled brain to that capacity. The average gits around him at uni couldn't possibly comprehend the beauty of his cocaine serenity, the tranquility of the stillness it brought to his mind, the peace that kept him from over-loading, shutting down into one of his migrained panics, rocking back and forth on the floor, hitting his head on the wall to give himself any tangible connection to the external world as he internally imploded. No, they didn't understand, not the journalists, nor the doctors, nor the bloody psychologists that had been hounding him ever since. Not even Mycroft, who should empathize more than most seeing as he had grown up with his wirey anomoly of a brother. It was none of their bloody business. They could fucking sod off.

It hadn't been a suicide attempt. It really hadn't.

Fucking twats.

Sherlock lay on his dorm bed, gazing at the ceiling with unveiled fury. A cigarette rested lit in his mouth. He knew this was against building codes, that it was a violation of school policy, but he honestly didn't care. The residence hall had recently pilfered through his things, attempting to find any drugs or paraphernalia to land him with a dealing charge. Thankfully, he had used the last of his stash on _that _night so he'd had none present in his dorm, just a joint hidden with the cigarettes in his slippers for when he needed to sleep despite a cocaine high, and some questionably legal chemicals that he had _honestly _been using for some organic experiments. He hadn't been charged with anything though, which was lucky, and probably due to his ever-present Big Brother's influence. Nonetheless, the experience had made him resentful of the university's unacceptable interference in his life; hence, the unadulterated rule breaking.

(Also, the influx of nicotine through his system helped to stave off the headache from withdrawal. Hadn't had any cocaine in nearly a week and a half, since his time in the hospital had obviously left him with no opportunity and now his actions were no doubt being monitored for future infraction. Not to mention the fractured hip and all over bruising wasn't too comfortable either. His body hurt, his brain hurt, everything hurt, so if his peers were going to complain about the smell of a cigarette and some mildly potent secondhand smoke they could go straight to hell, they knew nothing about being uncomfortable.)

Sherlock's mobile rang on the table next to him. Groaning, he rolled to one side, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth as he did so. He glanced at the screen to check the caller I.D. It was a number he did not recognize, but it wasn't restricted so it couldn't be Mycroft. Sherlock tossed the phone onto his bed, morphing back into his original position. He really couldn't tolerate people right now, not with this massive headache. His self-restraint was severely compromised and he didn't think he had the willpower to reign himself in, to hide, to go unnoticed today. The phone stopped buzzing and Sherlock closed his eyes, exhaling the cigarette smoke with ease.

The phone on the bed rang again, this time muffled by his comforter. Sherlock snatched the phone up again to see he'd received a text… from _Mycroft_. He rolled his eyes, flicking open the flip phone's screen.

**Answer your phone. -M**

_**So it was you, you manipulative prat. Commandeered another person's number to trick me into answering? -SH**_

**Your phone will ring again soon. If you don't pick up you can expect my interference. -M**

_**If you want me to have this information so badly, why don't you just bloody text it to me LIKE YOU'RE DOING NOW. -SH**_

**Just answer the phone. –M**

A moment later, as if on cue, the phone rang out, this time from the same number as before. Sherlock sighed before picking it up, flicking the screen open.

"Hello?"

"Hello, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes I presume. This is Oxford's Counseling and Mental Health Services. We'd like to schedule a mandatory appointment with you. When's your next earliest convenience?"

Sherlock hung up immediately. His phone rang again, this time a restricted number.

"No. Bleeding. Way. In. Hell," Sherlock growled into the phone.

"Mandatory protocol when a suicide attempt has been made, Sherlock, there's nothing I can do," Mycroft intoned on the other line. Sherlock could almost imagine the smug look on his face, the slight condescending tilt of his brother's head as he said those words. "If you don't like any of the counselors on hand at uni, I'd be happy to find one in the nearby area and have my people escort you to and from."

"Don't tell me there's nothing you can do, you know well enough you could do something if you wanted to."

"Well, I think we've gotten to the root of it then. I don't want to do anything about this situation. I think it would be good for you in your present… state."

Sherlock very nearly threw the phone against the wall. He pulled it away from his ear for a second to get himself under control, calm, composed, don the stoic face he so often showed to the world (but he had been right, he had no patience for the farce today, not with this migraine and withdrawal and now the prospect of _seeing a therapist_. No way.)

"Mycroft, I wasn't attempting suicide. I already told you. I was simply testing a physics equation for non-lethal falls from a tall height. Could very well be useful in the future for if I ever do need to successfully fall from a building without dying…"

"Sherlock. If you want to go discuss this and attempt to weasle your way out, I suggest you take it up with the Mental Health Services directly. If they decide you don't have to go, that's perfectly legitimate. However, if you are mandated to attend therapy, and you attempt to get out of it, I will send my people to collect you. This is not negotiable."

With a click, Mycroft hung up, leaving Sherlock righteously infuriated with him, and the school, and just… _it wasn't a bloody suicide attempt._

Sherlock stood, sweeping his charcoal pea coat on in a grand gesture and dropping his cigarette to the floor, leaving a burn mark in the cheap carpet. Fine, if he had to convince some overweight pencil-pushers of his sanity, that was fine. He grabbed some markers on his way out, slamming the door behind him.


	2. Falling Faster

Sherlock began his escapades into street drugs when he was twenty.

He had gotten high before then and had picked up his habit of trashing himself with cigarettes and coffee before he had even reached puberty. Yet none of those instances had ever been on anything bought from a dealer because he'd never had the opportunity to have a good enough relationship with a dealer to buy anything. His peers from school certainly wouldn't sell to that quiet freak who sometimes went ballistic, and there was no one in proximity to the Holmes manor for that to be an option either. So Sherlock had been stuck with home remedies for awhile; taking his mother's Xanax, overdosing on cough syrup. Stupid methods, not even remotely elegant enough to put in a scientific write up, but they worked nonetheless. He had escaped the barreling of his brain for long enough to make the experience worthwhile. And that was the point, wasn't it?

When he'd gotten to uni, though, a whole world of organic recreational compounds had opened up to him.

He hadn't expected cocaine to be his drug of choice, to be honest. He figured an opiate would be the more likely option for quieting a brain. Depressants were supposed to put you into a languid trance, and initially Sherlock had postulated that was what he would want most.

The experience of shooting up hadn't been bad, but the effect of the opiate itself had been. It was just so _boring_. Yes, it made his brain slow just a little, took the edge off of his perpetual anxiety, but Christ, it made _everything _slow down too. No, definitely not for him. When he came down he felt like jumping out of his skin from all the pent-up energy.

Weed had been fine, but not his favorite. Similar effects to the opiate, except on a much smaller level.

And then there was cocaine. The powder that numbed his face and flooded through his system, crashing in his bloodstream, leaving nothing untouched. Stimulants shouldn't have given him focus, that wasn't the way they affected average people, he was sure. Yet Sherlock couldn't help but feel calmed by the cocaine, and not in the passive, slow sense of opiates. Everything was just so much more tangible, easy to think through. He could slow down, follow a conversation, do equations without jumping ahead to the end without doing any of the important middle steps.

Cocaine was his perfect white mistress. It gave him _control, _something he very much lacked.

It hadn't been long before his intake had increased from average, to the almost regularly high, to the I-need-cocaine-to-do-coursework-and-function high. He was fine with this part of himself, to be sure (not addicted, no, not addicted). He wasn't bothered by his dependence on the stimulant, because he'd been dependent on other methods of calm for years without any repercussions. Why should partaking in cocaine be any different? And if anyone noticed anything they didn't say anything. His grades increased and leveled out. He could sometimes tolerate being around other humans (although to say he enjoyed it would be stretching it. Still too dull, too boring to keep his attention for too long). His independent research in the chemistry lab was going swimmingly and he had a paper in pre-publication already.

If that was what came from cocaine use, he didn't quite understand why other people didn't turn to the drug.

(_Because this isn't a normal reaction to stimulants_, the logical part of his brain repeated. _The average human being does not focus after an increase in stimulants. They do quite the opposite._)

It was a relatively simple task hiding his habit from Mycroft. His brother had been checking in on him less and less as his grades and class standing had improved; obviously thought his younger brother was stabilizing and didn't need his control anymore. Sherlock didn't bother worrying about his parents. The only use he had for them was the money their estate kept in his bank account. Other than that he had no use for them and hadn't seen them since coming to uni.

It was just Sherlock and his white mistress.

* * *

Money became an issue within two months. True, Sherlock did have a rather large amount in his bank account, courtesy of his prestigious parents, but he was too brilliant to leave himself a paper trail. As his usage increased, so did the amount of money withdrawn and frequency of withdrawals. Not close to being suspicious yet, but he needed to be careful.

Take out less money, maybe biweekly? He had found himself buying less groceries in the past few weeks, so that money could go towards his disposable income.

Except exam week arrived and Sherlock suddenly found himself without anymore money. What more, his card had been rejected at the pin machine for some unknown reason. Still had access to his account, according to the banker he called, just couldn't withdraw money for some unbeknownst reason.

_Probably Mycroft, _Sherlock sighed. _Probably attempting to force me to come to him for a visit. _He _had _sent him an invitation to his house a few months ago, which Sherlock had ignored more because he had more important things than see his dawdling big brother. No, he wasn't that sentimental, he was a bloody Holmes.

Then withdrawal had happened.

Sherlock had foreseen this, knew the effects of chemical dependence (not that he was addicted, just his body was out of sync now). But mind over matter, he could push through this until the next monetary month, get through this withdrawal thing. It will be good for him, really. A challenge.

There was the headache. The dull, pulsating migraine that slowly built into a skull-shattering pile driver directed to his head. There were the body aches, the shaking, and the nausea. He could deal with these though, his transport was just failing him that was all. It was relatively easy to forget.

It was the hazy clouding of the brain that got to him; the feeling that everything inside his cranium was trapped under a thick blanket of fog. It was _dreadful _for coursework and experiments because he couldn't focus on anything, and not in the sometimes brilliant but dreadfully inefficient and cluttered way he couldn't focus before cocaine. No, now it was more that _he just couldn't think_.

That was not to be tolerated.

It hadn't been too hard to track down Mycroft's London estate. Sherlock had used the mailing address of his last post as a starting point (obviously it had been a fake, but the postal system itself gave telltale signs of where a letter had been sent from regardless of the secrecy attempted).

Two days into withdrawal he found himself knocking on his brother's door despite having not seen him in almost a year.

The look of surprise on Mycroft's face made Sherlock distinctly uncomfortable because it looked way too bloody sentimental. Was that the hint of a smile, the semblance of relief? Yet just as suddenly as it had appeared the human reaction disappeared behind Mycroft's double chin and icy exterior.

For a man only in his late 20's, Mycroft carried himself with the air of a man wise beyond his years. His tailored suit was just slightly oversized, whether to hide the slight weight that he had picked up from his privileged life as a government official or because he had, in fact, lost weight after his suit's fitting.

Sherlock wondered vaguely what he looked like to his brother. Probably atrocious. Malnourished certainly, tired, and perhaps a bit strung out. He tried to hide that behind a lit cigarette. It was dangerous to present himself to Mycroft like this; almost putting himself on a platter wasn't he? It was too easy for his brother to deduce the drugs. However, Sherlock _needed _the money, couldn't handle this withdrawal nonsense, and if Mycroft was going to attempt to stop his drug use, he would find himself very disappointed with that outcome. Nobody could make Sherlock do anything he didn't want to.

"I need money Mycroft," he intoned quickly before his brother could open his mouth, making the objective of his little visit clear from the beginning. He watched for signs of recognition, hints that his brother had indeed been the one to freeze his access to his bank account. Sherlock thought he saw he flicker of familiarity across his face, and maybe the semblance of a sheepish grin, but that all seemed too _human_ for Mycroft. No matter.

"How did you find me?"

This was their relationship. No warm hellos or emotional hugs from two siblings who hadn't seen each other in a year. Just business, work to be done, that was their relationship, wasn't it, all strict formality and brusque practicality? Nothing sentimental in there.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, swiping a stray of dark hair off his face. He noted how Mycroft's glance was taking him in, running over the cigarette, the long sleeved shirt even in the moderate London heat, and the circles under his eyes. _Does he know? _

"Really Mycroft, the return address of your most recent letter was a very good starting point. From there, it was hardly difficult to determine your actual address."

Mycroft nodded before standing back from the door, ushering his younger brother into his home.

"Fair enough. Would you like to come in for tea? How's university going?"

Sherlock bristled at the idea. He needed to remove himself from Mycroft's company as quickly as possible before his drug habit became even more obvious. Sherlock shrunk back from the door, clamping down on the cigarette between his lips.

"I need money, Mycroft."

His brother's posture seemed to sag a bit, even though his face retained its serene contour. Mycroft nodded curtly before quipping back, "Yes, but I hardly see fit to just hand you cash on my porch like you're some delivery boy. If you want the money you'll have to at least come into the foyer."

Sherlock groaned childishly but stepped into the stuffy house. It was _too _reminiscent of the Holmes manor if he were to be frank, all pomp and presentation, lacking any cozy sentimentality. The decorations, although decidedly expensive, were also dreadfully _dull _and boring to look at. Everything was too clean, everything in its proper place (Sherlock wondered offhandedly if his brother cleaned and organized or if he had a maid. Could he risk the possible security breach? Anyways, his brother's OCD was so outrageous he probably would redo anything a maid did anyways. Definitely his own doing then.)

"So, how is university?" Mycroft repeated as he walked over from the door he just closed. Sherlock didn't bother to turn his gaze away from the coat of arms he was studying (what was the code behind these arms, there definitely was some sort of systematic explanation for these bloody things).

"You know how university is going, Myc, don't pretend you haven't been spying."

"Not spying, brother dear. Just keeping a weather eye out for your wellbeing."

Sherlock whirled around to face him. "Needing to know every phone call I make and every plan I have goes far beyond the stretch of _keeping a weather eye out_."

Mycroft grinned pompously. "At least I haven't installed cameras, brother. MI5 can't risk the security breach you being connected to me presents."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. The right bastard, trying to hide his prying behind _queen and country_.

"You wouldn't _dare _place cameras in my room."

Mycroft held his ferocious gaze steadily before sharply inhaling. "You came here for a reason, didn't you Sherlock? Money, correct? How much did you want?"

Sherlock paused, calculating. If he asked for too much, that would indicate he needed it for something rather large and important which would make Mycroft suspicious. Might up his spying. Might install his filthy cameras (oh god). Couldn't risk that.

"Two hundred quid."

The bills were in his hand within moments. Sherlock began stalking back towards the door.

"You should really stay for tea, Sherlock, if you're not to busy." Mycroft's version of a protest, still veiled behind his political external and practicality.

"That's the problem, My, far too busy," Sherlock tossed back. Now that he had the money all he could think of was the next time to insufflation. He needed the powder, his white mistress, and now the only thing stopping him was the looming hulk of mass he called a brother.

"Ah, well, perhaps some other time then. I could have me secretary arrange it."

Sherlock nodded vacantly.

"Lay off the cakes, My, you've gained another five."

He was skipping off the porch and down the steps before he heard what sounded like "And you've lost twice that," but he found that he couldn't really care. Mycroft didn't seem to think anything suspicious was going on. Wouldn't have given him the money if he had. Good. All he had to do was find the nearest dealer. He had enough for maybe two grams now, with money to spare for cigarettes until his account was unfrozen. The fat sod would have to do that now that he had visited.

Despite the continuation of withdrawal, Sherlock found a strange sense of happiness welling up inside him. He had money, cigarettes, and soon cocaine. Everything was good.

Two hours later Sherlock was high as a kite and everything was even better.

* * *

Mycroft's secretary did, in fact, try to contact him over the next few weeks, but he doggedly ignored the calls and letters. Couldn't risk seeing his brother now. Exams week, usage had skyrocketed to an astronomical level. He spent most of his time high off his ass, and the rest wishing that he was. Nosebleeds had started occurring at random times. They were inconvenient, but he supposed they were a part of every drug consumer's life.

Not a junkie. Sherlock wasn't an addict.

The high was worth it though. The lucid calm, the tranquil sensation of being _in control _of knowing what would be coming out of his mouth, what he was writing down, the steps of his logic, everything was so tangible with cocaine. He wondered once again how he had gone without it for so long. DXM and Xanax didn't compare. The highs of his youth were comical compared to this beauty.

And if some dark part of his brain kept intoning _slow down, slow down, slow down before it's too late_ it could go straight the fuck to Hell because this was the closest to perfect he'd ever been. The closest to happy. No more highs and lows, no more rapidly fluctuating from one emotion to the next, giving himself emotional whiplash and confusing the hell out of him. No more bouncing in place or tangential thoughts.

Everything was still now.

God, if Sherlock could feel emotions (which he didn't, he's a Holmes, he _doesn't feel_) he would say that he loved his white mistress.

* * *

Mycroft froze his account again.

The fact that his poncy older brother was using government funds to block bank accounts just to force his sibling to come have tea at his place would have been comical if it didn't also righteously piss Sherlock off.

"For God's sakes My, I can't visit. I have a paper in pre-publication, loads of coursework. You can't just hold my money hostage so I come visit you," he shrieked into his phone.

"It's not _your _money Sherlock, and as with all things, it does not come free. I simply want to check in with you every so often, see how things are going."

"_I can't_."

"Well, you'll have to if you want the money. When you're ready, simply contact my secretary and we'll make an appointment for tea." With a click, Mycroft hung up.

Sherlock growled at the phone. _Bloody Mycroft, always sticking his fat nose into everyone's business_. Sherlock couldn't give into him, not this early in the game anyways. He didn't need Mycroft's fucking money. What he did need was more coke because he sure as hell was not putting up with withdrawal again.

Sebastian Moran was an economy student on Sherlock's floor. Sherlock happened to know that he was a lazy ass, who had more of a tendency to party with his troll-like cronies than he did schoolwork. Although this was vastly obnoxious behavior, it did lend itself to be of potential use for Sherlock's plight.

Sherlock knocked on his Seb's door, leaning against the doorframe in an attempt at nonchalance. Sebastian opened it, appearing shocked at the thin lanky boy in the hall.

"What do you want, Holmes?" he asked. His eyes were red and his room hinted at the smell of marijuana. It was a Tuesday night; no doubt he had coursework due tomorrow. _Perfect. _

"Good evening, Sebastian," Sherlock began, donning his clipped, practical tone, the one he used with Mycroft when they were pretending not to care. "I have a business proposition for you."

If Sebastian was taken aback he didn't show it, or maybe he was just too stoned to care. "Right. Well, what is it?"

"I'm in need of some money."

Sebastian smirked. "I thought you came from royalty or something Holmes."

"Hardly."

"Well, how do your money problems involve me?"

"I could do your schoolwork for you if you give me some cash in return."

Sebastian's face lit up yet he attempted to hide it. Couldn't show his interest, give Sherlock the upper hand. Perhaps he would make a good businessman after all.

"Yeah, well, come inside then." The door opened wider and Sherlock stepped in. The room was the same size as his and the smell of weed got stronger as he walked in. There were psychedelic band posters on the wall, a record player in the corner was playing some screechy ambient guitar music. Predictable. Boring.

"So, Holmes, you want to do my coursework. As it so happens, I have a paper on the import and export system of China due tomorrow at two. I haven't a clue where to begin. Complete it for me and I'll give you fifty quid."

Sherlock ran a quick calculation in his head. He wasn't comfortable with economics topics, too dull to keep his attention, but he could ostensibly learn enough about it in the next night to formulate some sort of rudimentary opinions on the system. Glossing over that with some eloquent writing would make an acceptable paper for Sebastian to turn in. Easy. Fifty quid for… ten hours of work? That was unreasonably low, barely enough for the amount of cocaine he would need to actually get around to doing the work.

"Seventy-five," he retorted. Sebastian didn't try to argue, just nodded as if he'd been expecting the raise. Probably had started off at a lower bid to try to get a bargain. The bastard.

"That's fine." Sebastian held out his hand and Sherlock shook it quickly before letting go, shoving his hand back into his pocket. "Here are the textbooks if you need them, and I'd like it by one tomorrow to give me time to hand it in."

Sherlock nodded. This had been easier than he'd thought. He left quickly, rushing to catch the dealer on the first floor before he went to bed.

The paper was done with ease once Sherlock had snorted two moderate lines. No need to sleep when his mistress was flowing through his veins. Only needed to top up twice before the paper was complete, handed to Sebastian by one the next day. Sebastian gave him more coursework to do after the paper received good marks, giving Sherlock enough money to support his habit without crawling back to Mycroft. Easy.

The nose bleeds got worse over the next few weeks. Sherlock was too high to notice the increase.

* * *

Everything was low and had been for days. Everything was low, and dull, and monotone, flat-lining in front of him like a stopped heartbeat. Dead. The cocaine highs weren't as good as they used to be and the brief periods between the highs were lower still.

Things just wouldn't line up, wouldn't focus no matter how much powder he shoved into his nose. His mind just kept rattling on the tracks, his thoughts circling round and round going nowhere, A to B to Z to Q back to A. It was exhausting and distracting and he really didn't need this right now with exams right around the corner, Seb's coursework needed to be complete, and his paper about to be published _goddamn_. He'd done four hits in the last… eight hours? More? He couldn't be sure. All Sherlock knew was that things _weren't getting done _and this was _annoying as hell_.

One more. One more time. The one that puts him in the right place. The one that fills the aching in his chest and the wetness in his eyes (_what the bloody hell, this should not be happening, he was not going to have a fucking panic attack, no way_). He prepares the lines.

A minute later his head is abuzz and the coursework doesn't seem too important at all.

_ The wind blows through the open window of Sherlock's dorm and ripples his hair, tussling his brown curls and causing his eyes to water. He looks down below him, on the placid streets of London oh so many stories below. He looks up above him at the glistening stars overhead (and he appreciates their beauty though he doesn't give a damn about outer space (too nebulous and vast, no tangible logic to grab onto so delete, delete, delete)). He can feel the pulse of resolution and apprehension throughout the city, his city. _

_ Sherlock's always loved London; he thrives on its energy because it matches his. It's unstoppable and quaint, with a combination of new innovation and old commemoration. His insides are thrumming, strumming, humming to a rhythm that he holds like a secret inside his throat. Unstoppable. Yes, he is un-fucking-stoppable. His mind is focused and relaxed and he still can't believe he lived without drugs for as long as he did, or at least the recreational ones. Because there were those ones he had been given before, when he was a child, which he had petulantly refused to take (and his mother had never been able to refuse her darling boy). _

_ Ritalin, Lithium, Adderall, Xanax, the labels of the bottles broadcasting subtly to the world the labels of the medicated, what diagnosis some beer-bellied child physician had administered. They didn't understand, never tried to, so he scathingly refused assistance because noncompliance was so much easier than explaining. _

_ (And the floorboards of his Mind Palace, where he shoves all those dull sentiments and thoughts out of the way, are creaking now, he can sense it. Turbulence in the flight of his high, memories attempting to escape. Lock down, shut down, delete delete delete.)_

_ Sherlock needs more, this isn't cutting it tonight. Too much commotion, dissonance, the hum inside is taking a dark turn. He's remembering and he doesn't want to, because remembering makes him human and he is so much more than that—he's un-fucking-stoppable. _

_ Sherlock just used the last of his stash, and the dregs of his last hit are pumping in his veins, inflating his mind and he looks to the sky above, up, up, up. He looks down below, his mind spinning and churning, the turbines working overtime because when he works there's The Focus and The Focus blocks out everything else (and he can remember when he first tells the doctors that, and they labeled it hyperfocus, a symptom of a larger problem, and they prescribed him a bottle with another label (NO, delete delete delete!) and his mother is happy because maybe he will get better (was this after the incident on the roof… (DELETE DELETE DELETE)) or maybe she's happy because if he's treated he won't end up like her other one (DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE!))._

_ His mind is calculating angles and velocities, trajectories and altitudes, and he has the sudden urge, no _need, _to jump. If his math and physics are correct, he should be able to survive if he falls at the right angle with the right initial momentum. He's a few stories up, but if he hits that ledge just right, using the momentum to push off to that flagpole he should be able to drop down without a scratch. Which he will be able to do of course. Because he's un-fucking-stoppable. _

_ Sherlock swings his legs over the edge of his windowsill and pulls himself up, grasping onto the window frame. The wind becomes louder in his ears. He pinpoints his angle and takeoff velocity quickly in his brain and takes a breath. Everything is still in that moment, he remarks, like the great moment between a patient's final inhalation and exhalation, the last work done by the lungs before they are of no more use. The hallways of his mind are so quiet his breath echoes throughout—there are no clawing sounds or scuttling noises. The city below him pauses, matching silence with silence. Sherlock feels a sloppy grin grace his face; it's _his _city. It's all his because he wants it to be. And he's unstoppable. _

_ Suddenly, the thrumming, strumming, and humming inside starts to crescendo, the buzzing inside his veins and body causing him to tremble, not out of fear, but rather _excitement_. The energy of his body cuts through the silence and Sherlock knows it's time. He has to go. He runs through his calculations on more time and jumps._

* * *

Ambulance sirens wailing, bright lights overhead, ragged breathing (was that his own?) and a voice.

"Brother, what on Earth have you been up to recently?"

* * *

The room thrummed with hushed noise—it was the kind of noise that was all the more irritating because it was quiet, because you weren't supposed to hear it and yet it was always there and always noticeable. The low hum of the heart monitor, the whirring of the circuits in his bed, even the lights seemed to be emitting a low, throbbing pulse. It was too much.

Sounds were the first sensation Sherlock began cognitively processing when he at last awoke. Only after that did he feel any visual stimulus, such as the overbearing glare of the lights as they bounced off his closed eyelids, or the gleaming white ceiling marred by minute imperfections that he was met with when he opened them. He didn't feel anything though; his sense of touch was remarkably stunted. Examining the array of wiring, piping and bags around and in his body he supposed it was because of a morphine drip. How absolutely dull, this lack of sensation. He hated opiates.

Sherlock had quickly deduced his situation the moment he had reentered consciousness. He was in a hospital, the last action he could remember was that he had jumped off of a building. Additionally, he recalled the lilting tone of his brother and the sound of an ambulance purring. Sherlock had obviously not hit the ground in the controlled manner he had planned on, leading him to be in the hospital under his brother's careful eye and, most likely, monetary contributions. Hardly a difficult deduction.

Sherlock was accustomed to hospitals. For one thing, he spent a considerable amount of his time doing clinical studies and lab research that was associated with the medical field. Additionally, there were those many times when he was a child that he had frequented hospitals for more… personal matters. Needless to say, men in white coats were hardly new material to Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock lay back on the stiff plastic pillows of his metal bed. Evidence showed that soon Mycroft would be entering the room, presumably to check on him. Now that he was awake this would likely involve conversation. Sherlock still remembered what his brother had said to him on their ambulance ride over.

_"Brother, what on Earth have you been up to recently?"_

Of course, the question had been a rhetoric one. Mycroft Holmes had undoubtedly already deduced what Sherlock had been up to recently. And if he hadn't done that just from one look at his brother in the ambulance, a visit to his dorm room would no doubt have given the older Holmes all the information he needed.

Some time later, Mycroft made his entrance. He immediately fixed Sherlock with a piercing gaze. Sherlock, however, flippantly rolled his eyes and turned to gaze out the window. Cloudy, he noted, and rather bleak. He quickly deleted this information as it was really of no use to him (and actually could potentially be quite a hindrance, as research shows that mood is typically depressed by outside environmental cues such as glum weather).

"Brother dear," Mycroft stated. Sherlock did not reply, instead focusing his attention on the thin cracks in the wall of his room. He tried to memorize the pattern—might be an interesting addition to his Mind Palace.

"Sherlock, it has come to my attention that you have been, how shall I put this, _dabbling _in illicit substances."

The words penetrated into Sherlock's consciousness despite his attempt to block them out, mainly due to the use of his name. Classic "cocktail party effect", a tool his family used on him to try to garner his attention. His brain could never help but give some consideration to them when his name was being used, no matter how he tried to train it to stop.

"Sherlock, I hope you can see that this course of action is ultimately unacceptable. Now that it has come to light, it cannot be allowed to continue. I'm sure you understand why."

_No. _They couldn't take away his solution. Sherlock looked at his older brother then, his head whipping around to meet his stare, the action erratic and dangerous, instantly reflecting the primal rejection he felt for that notion. Sherlock caught himself and struggled to regain a composed, objective exterior before he answered.

"I really don't see what for, Mycroft. Never been better."

Mycroft made a noise that was somewhere between a snigger and a laugh, the inflection of the noise bouncing from high to low, indicating condescension.

"Brother mine, _you jumped off a roof._"

"Yes, Mycroft, I've always had a knack for jumping off of roofs, as I'm sure you'll recall from our youth. You can hardly blame that on drugs."

Mycroft fixed Sherlock with that hard stare again, all false impression of nonchalance vanishing from his eyes. Sherlock knew that making light of _those _particular previous circumstances was not in particularly good taste. But good taste be damned, he did have a certain pattern.

"Sherlock, how many more roofs do you plan on jumping off of? What do we say about fate? The universe is hardly so careless. Sooner or later your little habit will not end with you waking up in a hospital. It will end in a grave marker."

Sherlock shrugged, more because he didn't know how to respond to that. He wasn't even sure if he would particularly care if that were the result. Or maybe that was just because his world was still being blurred and dulled by the morphine drip.

"Brother, as much as your death would be a sharp relief for me and my own well being, in regards to yours it's a rather bad deal, wouldn't you say?"

Sherlock didn't even shrug this time, just sat there staring impassively at the wall.

Mycroft sighed heavily, the sound escaping from his lungs giving credence to how remarkably exhausting this whole ordeal was for him. Mycroft Holmes, government official and proper genius, known for being cold and shrewd, was worried for his younger brother. He had made an oath to himself after the other one, an oath to keep his remaining family whole and safe to the best of his ability. It was the least he could do, considering. Mycroft was resolved to keep this promise, the only one he'd ever made, but it had grown taxing. He stared at the floor for a second before stepping closer to his brother's bed.

"Mummy knows, Sherlock. Not about the cocaine, but about you jumping off the roof. It upsets her, you know."

Sherlock ruffled slightly in his bed, his eyes twitching slightly as if he meant to look at Mycroft before they relaxed once more into a forced lazy expression.

"I don't see what for. It was just an experiment. I wanted to prove that my physics calculations were correct. I deduced that if I leapt off the window at exactly 30.8 meters per second of velocity, using the momentum to…"

"So you jumping out a window was a science experiment, not a suicide attempt."

A brisk nod, as edged as possible considering Sherlock was in a neck brace.

"And what were the drugs then?"

"Experiment."

"They can't continue."

Sherlock's countenance changed in an instant. He snapped his head to Mycroft, his eyes narrowed, his face contorted into a look of pure rage. His breathing became shallower, the muscles under his pale, thin skin shook. Mycroft regarded his brother as Sherlock struggled to gain composure enough to form the single word, ""You can't force me to stop."

The blunt answer pierced through the stiff silence that had been mounting between them. Mycroft tapped his toes with the tip of the umbrella he was holding unceremoniously in his hand, giving the tension a moment to slightly dissipate before proceeding.

Sherlock's eyes flashed, the emotion behind them startling. "I am fine Mycroft, go tell that to Mummy, as soon as you have your much desired cigarette, your eyes are squinted slightly, hand trembling, tapping specifically your forefinger against your leg as if ashing. That is if you even told Mummy I'm in hospital, your eyes looked down when you mentioned her potentially indicating deceit. You're slipping Mycroft, can't cover up like you used to. I would cross check but I haven't got the patience, nor the mental capacity, possibly because I have a concussion, most likely because of this fucking morphine drip. And goddamn this morphine is making everything so flat!"

Sherlock had worked himself into a frenzy, his speech speeding up with every uttered syllable until the words blended together into a deductive haze. He reached over and tugged at the morphine drips attached to his body, his movement jerky and sporadic. Mycroft could hear the doctors outside scuttling, preparing to come in and likely sedate their petulant patient. _Oh Sherlock, always the unruly child, _Mycroft thought.

Sherlock continued tearing at the tubes attached to his body as he shouted, "Dull, this is DULL! DULL!"

Mycroft left then. There was really no point in staying. Mycroft had seen this scene play out many times throughout their childhood—the outbursts, the anger, the destructive tendencies and the sudden crashes. Nobody could get through to him when he was in this state. It was best to let the doctor's sedate Sherlock and come back at another time.

Mycroft met his assistant outside Sherlock's door as the doctors and nurses began rushing in. He could still hear his brother's screams and the sounds of him thrashing about. They were soon mixed with shouts from the doctors and the telltale signs of a struggle. Mycroft sighed heavily and turned to his assistant.

"I suppose we should begin keeping an eye on him, Rachel. He can't be trusted to make decisions on his own. Always the child." He said this last sentence meditatively, almost to himself.

"Yes sir," Rachel replied.

Mycroft looked over at her, nodded, and began walking leisurely down the hallway of the hospital, exiting the way he had come. He supposed he should call mother to let her know Sherlock was in hospital. He had never actually told their Mummy, hadn't spoken to his family in ages; he was his brother's primary medical contact.

* * *

Sherlock was being torn apart from the inside out, the caustic energy building up inside of him threatened to erupt at any moment, held in check only by that hateful morphine drip and the placid impassivity it brought with it. Even with the drug, Sherlock's mind still flew at an accelerated rate even though his body couldn't follow. After his last little outburst the doctors had tied restraints around him. He now spent hours trying to decipher how best to rid himself of their restriction, but as of yet could not come to a conclusion. Mainly because he couldn't focus on anything substantial externally for too long before his brain whirred past it, already connecting his exterior signals and cues with some other seemingly random fact or memory. The red line that connected the two was thin and almost transparent but still undeniably there, allowing his brain to leap from one thing to the next in a train of thought that made complete sense to him, but to any outsider would seem nonsensical at best. He was a toy car that would spin its wheels frantically when the go button was pressed but could not find the traction to go anywhere. And Sherlock's go button was constantly pushed.

It had been a week now, a week of being tied to an uncomfortable plastic mattress in an uncomfortable room full of distracting noises, overwhelming lights, and dull dull DULL doctors and nurses continuously bustling about him. The only remotely interesting bit was when he had been interrogated by a rather disgruntled policeman and a social worker from the university about why he jumped out a window.

It was only interesting because he had been able to mentally toy with them, using his intellect to entice and enthrall them, made them bend closer to examine what could possibly be inside the brain of the funny young man in front of them before he tore them apart with that same intelligence.

The police officer was currently on the mend from an amphetamine addiction, drugs he had obtained through multiple busts (slight increase in average body temperature, indicated when they had shaken hands, overly tired, drop in weight, and that _hunger _in his eyes, and Sherlock knew that hunger oh so well) and signs of recent marital problems (noticeable body aches in the neck, knees, and back from sleeping on the couch, clothes rumpled and bordering on dirty, hadn't been home enough for the wife to do the laundry, noticeable twisting of wedding ring around his finger).

The social worker had recently had an abortion, not of her own choice but at the pushing of her significant other (clear symptoms of depression as well as an abusive relationship, recent rapid weight gain and weight loss, discomfort at being in a clinical setting).

Sherlock did not have difficulty using these tidbits of information against them, throwing up barriers and destroying connections with each scathing remark and biting comment. The pair had left quickly, rattled to the core, and he hoped his attack would keep them away, that they would just leave him alone and leave their bureaucratic shit out of his life. He already had enough bureaucracy coming from Mycroft, he really did not need anymore.

Mycroft came to visit him a few more times.

"I will be cutting off your monthly stipend, Sherlock," Mycroft announced. "I will be paying for your tuition, fees, meals, et cetera, but you will have no disposable income. I will meet with you on a biweekly basis to check in on your health."

Sherlock almost smirked at that. Hadn't Mycroft realized that he didn't need the family money anymore. If he kept selling his brain and time to Sebastian he would have more than enough money to sustain his habit. Really, Mycroft was slipping. This wouldn't hold him back at all.

"I will also be installing cameras into your dorm room to monitor your activities."

Sherlock's mouth dropped open at that. _The fucking… the stupid… absolutely no bleeding way was his brother going to have access to twenty four hour coverage of him. _

"No," he snarled. "Absolutely not."

"You've forced my hand on this, Sherlock."

"I've forced your… forced your _fucking_… _this is not what people do, Mycroft_."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

If Sherlock weren't restrained, he would have strangled the whale. His heart was pounding in his chest, restriction of his airways, he could feel himself getting lightheaded. _God, no, no, no, not an anxiety attack, not here, not now._

"People don't put their brothers under constant surveillance by the country's bleeding intelligence agency just because they experiment with drugs."

Mycroft regarded him silently for a moment looking as if he were about to say something. Finally he leaned back, adjusting his suit front, before fixing Sherlock with an intent stare.

"Why did you start this experiment?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. The morphine pumping in his veins might be making him groggy, but he still wasn't high enough to divulge all his personal secrets to Mycroft. Not nearly. He wasn't even sure if there was an instance where he'd be high enough to tell Mycroft about _those… sentiments. _God, no.

"Can't keep tabs on everything, then, Mycroft? Does it upset you to not know something? You were slow on the pick up. Took months for the drugs to come out, and you wouldn't have known if my window experiment hadn't worked out." Sherlock was taunting his older brother to be sure, reverting back to their childish games. But he felt like a child now, strapped to a hospital bed in a thin gown while his meddling brother determined the rest of his life for him, put him under maximum MI5 surveillance. He had no control except over his petty actions.

Mycroft didn't take the bait. "You will be released from hospital and reinstalled into your dormitory tomorrow. It has already been searched by the campus police for drugs and paraphernalia so you have no more substance left on those premises. Tonight my people will be installing cameras. Do not try to remove them." Mycroft fixed him with a stare before turning to go. "I have no misconception that you will not be resuming this bad habit once you are released. However, know this. If any of my people get indication of you using, you can expect my interference in some capacity."

With that, Mycroft Holmes left.

Sherlock was released from hospital the next day. Mycroft's assistant Rachel gave him a ride back to university, dropping him off at his dormitory before slyly pulling up the floorboards of his room to check once more that he was clean. Sherlock was left standing in the near empty room, staring at the space in the floor where his salvation used to be. If he was honest with himself he would say that he _felt_ then; he felt isolated, nervous, angry, and pathetic for feeling all those things in the first place, the self-resentment for his lack of ability to completely remove himself.


	3. Always the Addict

Victor watched from afar as a scrawny, dark-haired boy scrawled in dry erase marker an almost unintelligible and certainly incomprehensible equation onto the windows of the Student Health Services building, muttering extremely creative swears under his breath. Victor sat on a park bench a little ways off, smoking silkily on his cigarette, watching the apparent madman in front of him. He noted how he mopped his black curls back from his head after each line of equation was complete, how his scrawny frame seemed to rock with a rhythm that the rest of the world was not attuned to as he feverishly wrote, and how a few track marks were clearly noticeable on the genius' forearm as he rolled his sleeves back.

Interesting… certainly interesting…

As Victor took the last hit of his cigarette he stood and smashed the dying embers beneath his heel as he moved forward.

"What are you doing?"

The black curls whipped around as pale blue eyes collided with Victor's own metallic hues.

"I'm writing an equation," he mumbled, turning back to his work before he lost track of where he was in his calculations. If the boy beside him was truly interested, he could wait a minute.

"Why do you want the Student Health Services to see this specific equation?"

Sherlock glanced sideways, keeping his intonation clipped as he replied, "And why do you think I would want SHS to see this?"

"You're writing the equation backwards so that it will be readable only from the inside of the building. It wasn't hard to guess."

Sherlock scoffed slightly under his breath as he continued scrawling.

The blonde boy beside him held out his hand. "Victor. Victor Trevor."

Sherlock turned to look at the boy, fixing him with his intense, destructive stare, the look that let others know he was breaking them apart bit by bit, analyzing what was hidden underneath, and then cataloguing the information and rebuilding. Sherlock glossed over the feral smile, the sharp cheekbones, the frayed leather jacket and the expensive combat boots, his focus zeroing in on that look in Victor's eyes, that hunger, that desire, that craving rippling underneath the smooth exterior that was broadcast to the world.

Sherlock could see danger written in every arch and curve of Victor's body, in his taut skin and jagged cheekbones, in the pinpricks on his arm and the bruises on his neck.

And for this, and only this reason, Sherlock resisted the urge to spew his normal scathing comment, bit back his reflex to hurl acidic rejection and alienating deduction at this newcomer. He took the hand carefully.

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"You're the bloke who jumped out of the window!" Victor laughed, shaking Sherlock's hand warmly. "I read about it in the campus paper," he said in response to the look Sherlock gave him.

"I wasn't aware we had a campus paper," Sherlock lied.

Victor cocked an eyebrow. "You aren't missing out on much. The only interesting bits are the police reports and the occasional story about a Chemistry major jumping out of a building and surviving."

"I didn't jump out of a window. I had calculated a controlled fall, following the laws of simple physics, taking into consideration wind, gravity, etc. and knew that if I leapt off at a precise velocity and initial angle, I would have fallen safely. I was testing experimental data."

"Is that the equation you used then?" Victor asked, indicating the scrawl on the Student Health Services window.

Sherlock looked at the equation, uncapping his marker as he prepared to continue. "Yes. If Student Health Services sees that I actually was testing an experimental calculation then they won't keep hounding me with their mental health screens and psychotherapy."

Victor smirked, the side of his face twisting into a cat-like grin. "Mate, I don't think that writing illegible mathematics on the windows of a university funded institution will prove to them that you don't need mental health attention. It might do just the opposite."

Sherlock found his mouth quirking up in a grin despite himself. The comment hadn't really been funny, so he wasn't quite sure why he had reacted with a smile. He looked over at Victor who was busy pulling a package of cigarettes out of the pocket of his black coat. Victor looked up at him.

"Care for a fag?"

Sherlock nodded, accepting the cigarette and lighting it off the lighter Victor held forward. He took a long drag, letting the smoke infiltrate every internal crevice, before cocking his head upwards and exhaling slowly. It was glorious. Victor blew out next to him, the cigarette tipped jauntily in between his fingers whereas Sherlock had his viced in his grip.

"Did your equation work?"

"Sorry?"

Victor let out more smoke before asking again. "Your equation, did it work?"

Sherlock gave him a hard look before allowing the right side of his mouth to move slightly upwards, flexing his zygomatic major, tightening the orbicularis oculi; pars orbitalis. All indications of a genuine smile. Interesting…

"I'm alive aren't I?"

The laugh the blonde boy created made Sherlock's zygomatic major flex even more, which both puzzled him and intrigued him. He studied the blonde boy who stood next to him, smoking. The deductions he could make of his character were countless. He could practically taste the binge drinking, smell the prostitute's perfume, feel the rush of snorting some blow, and hear the roar of an engine speeding down closed London streets as he watched Victor; the signs were that obvious. He was edgy, certainly, but edgy with just a hint of a softness underneath. The frumpy sweater underneath the leather studded jacket. Sherlock knew it was there, but there was no actual external evidence for that claim, no data from this exterior. It was frustrating and puzzling and Sherlock wanted to go deeper. He wanted to root through this young man, take him apart and piece him back together just so he would know how the whole entity worked.

Victor finished his cigarette and stamped it out, leaving the dying ember on the sidewalk.

"Well, I have to go mate. I have to pick up something from a friend."

Cocaine. Sherlock knew it, not only due to deductions but because some base part of him thrummed with the knowledge that this blonde would soon be in possession of the thing he wanted most right now. He turned back to the window quickly, nodding, hoping the other boy hadn't noticed some animal desire on his face.

"But hey, I'll catch you later, alright?"

With that, the blonde stalked off, pulling another cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it as he did so. Sherlock watched him go out of the corner of his eye, noting the way his long fingers tapped the ash off his fag, how he favored his right side, but was a dominant lefty (likely due to drag racing).

Victor Trevor. He resorted to _not _forgetting his name instantly. Sherlock turned back to his equation.

* * *

Victor was getting bored, which was in itself interesting because the nearby city of London was anything but boring. There were drag races and drugs, brothels and bars; the underbelly of London roared with a caustic life that both attracted and repelled. It was what had drawn Victor here in the first place, and now that same energy was driving him away, like a sudden switch in the magnetic field.

There were only so many adrenaline filled races, near-death experiences, and hazy, drug-induced hallucinations one could take before a break was needed.

Except Victor Trevor still needed something to occupy his time, needed an outlet, another partner in his constant dance with danger. Victor was an addict, an addict to adventure. It was that metallic taste as you bite your tongue in horror and thrill, the snap as your senses instantaneously align in an attempt to save your life that he desired more than any drug though.

Victor stalked down the street, pulling another cigarette out of his pocket. He hadn't realized that he'd started chain-smoking until a week or so after it happened. It was just his nature, he supposed. Give anything addictive to Victor Trevor and he could easily hook himself on it. Of course, he also knew he could stop at anytime. That was the beauty of his danger; he only indulged in it because he loved it, not because he needed it. That was the difference.

It didn't take long for him to reach Bruce's apartment. Why the burly dealer had decided to take an apartment outside of central London rather than within was lost on Victor, but he was a family friend and happened to also have some good blow.

Victor knocked on the door, tossing his dying ember onto the ground as he did. The door opened to reveal a muscular man in his mid-twenties. Cropped brown hair covered narrow, distrustful brown eyes. Upon seeing Victor though, he shoved the door open some more, his tanned face morphing into an easy smile.

"Hey Vic."

"Hey Bruce, mind if I come in for a tick?"

"Not at all, not at all."

The door opened wider and Victor stepped into the main hall of the shady apartment. It was dark, but neat, each cabinet organized and nothing out of place. There were two kinds of drugs dealers, Victor thought. One was the messy kind, the haphazard ones who were really just junkies themselves and looking to turn a profit off their respected chemicals. Those were the ones who tended to get caught out most. The other ones were the respectable ones, the guys with cool heads who kept things running as smoothly as any other business. Their houses were neat so they'd notice if anything was taken or missing. They never did business while high. Some even went so far as to make coded records of any large transactions. Victor liked these dealers the most.

"I saw your dad a few days ago, mate," Bruce was saying as he walked over to the kitchen cabinet by the refrigerator. Victor grimaced in spite of himself at the mention of the man. He spun around to hide it, pretending to investigate a picture hanging on the wall.

"Oh yeah," he replied, running a hand through his hair. "What'd he say?"

"It was just business, so nothing you'd find interesting."

_Then why mention him at all? _Victor thought. Everyone knew his relationship with his father was strained at best. But he supposed he couldn't blame Bruce for trying to strike up a friendly conversation, even from such an unfriendly topic.

Victor turned back to find the dealer unlocking a safe in the back of the cabinet. He pulled out a small bag of white powder.

"This is the stuff you're looking for, I'm assuming?"

Victor nodded his affirmation, sticking his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. "It's almost the weekend, I've got to prepare myself."

"You're one crazy partier, eh?"

"Just enjoy a good time. You could join if you want. Gloria might be coming."

Bruce shrugged, appearing nonchalant, even though his eyes lit up a bit at the name. "Maybe I'll see if I can spring some free time, but weekends are a big deal for my business, you know?"

"Alright mate," Victor pulled some bills out of his pocket and slapped them into Bruce's hand as he shook it. "Catch you later."

A few minutes later he was back on the streets, heading back to his room. He still had some essay to write about the bullshit philosophies of Plato's Republic and whether he was describing a utopia and dystopia. Utterly dull topic, really, but he needed to pass this class. He was sure some of his stash could help him get through this.

As he walked by the Oxford school center he caught a brief glimpse of familiar dark curls and cigarette smoke. Grinning to himself, Victor pulled his jacket around himself and briskly walked on. He was bored, yes, but he had a suspicion that befriending Sherlock Holmes would get rid of that.

* * *

If Sherlock had thought he knew what withdrawal was like before, he now realized he had sorely underestimated its malicious nature.

The world just wouldn't seem to line up, thoughts didn't connect at all, his brain felt like it was going rancid from the inside out, fouling up on the repetitious thought of _need more need more need more_. The only things that distracted him from this line of thinking was the horrendous nausea and body splitting aches and pains that would periodically throw him off guard as they split through his body.

It was pure agony.

Sherlock lay on his bed, the pillow shoved over his face to block out any light because he knew the stimuli would give him a worse migraine than the one he already had and he sure as hell did not need that at the moment.

He knew he wasn't going to follow Mycroft's heinous request that he remain sober. He wasn't even sure that was a possible option at this point in The Game. However, Mycroft had cameras somewhere in his room, probably in enough locations to make the possibility of blind spots out of the question. Since his room was where he had usually insufflated the cocaine, he wasn't entirely sure where else he could go without Mycroft finding out. Of course, he could go in the parks or in some seedy alley, but he wanted to avoid that if at all possible. He wasn't desperate enough to take to the _streets_ like some groveling addict. No, no, Sherlock would just have to think of another option.

He growled in pain as another spike felt like it was being shoved into his brain. Curling up into a ball, he balled the comforter beneath him between two fists and shoved his face into the mattress.

_Fucking withdrawal_.

He needed cocaine.

Well, first things first, he still needed to get some money, and with Sebastian being his only source of income that meant he'd actually have to get around to doing the work Seb had given him. Sherlock hadn't had much patience to do anything over the past few days due to the constant nagging of withdrawal. However, the symptoms just seemed to be escalating more than dwindling down, and since obtaining money would lend itself directly to getting the solution to this problem, cocaine, Sherlock supposed he'd have to buckle through this.

He _almost _wished he had the stillness of morphine to take this away.

Almost, but not quite.

Sherlock stood and wrapped his peacoat around him, bagging up textbooks in a hurry. He needed to get Seb's coursework done as fast as possible. That was the only solution to this. He thrust his backpack over his shoulder and scrambled out the door.

Half an hour later Sherlock was buried into the utterly _dull _topic of cigarette taxes and whether they reduced demand properly. God, this topic was not only boring as hell but also made his throat itch in the back, indicating that he needed a smoke soon or all hell would certainly break lose. Sebastian couldn't have picked a worse fucking topic for his term paper, probably chose it just to fuck with the genius who did his work for him, the prick.

Sherlock balled his hands into his hair and buried his face in his arms dramatically as he was subjected to another tremor through his body. _When would this stop_? He couldn't work like this, couldn't even complete this obscenely trivial economics paper with withdrawal in the way. Mycroft could go right the fuck to Hell for putting him in this position.

"Y'okay mate?" a familiar voice asked behind his shoulder.

Sherlock startled, as he turned to see Victor Trevor behind him, a Cheshire-like grin on his pale face. Sherlock wiped the look of surprise off his face, and then combed through his hair with his previously clenched fists.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he grumbled. He made to turn back to his work, wasn't really sure what else he was supposed to say, but Victor grabbed his shoulder suddenly. Normally, Sherlock would have balked at the sudden touch, but found that he didn't draw away. _Okay…_

Victor bent down and glanced at Sherlock's features. "You've got the agonies, haven't you? Yeah… I can tell. Haven't gotten your fix in awhile, eh? Calm down," Victor replied in response to Sherlock's petrified look. "I doubt anyone else would be able to notice. Just been there before myself so I know what to look for."

Sherlock broke away from the young blonde's touch, attempting to turn back to his… Seb's… coursework. He was sick of everyone treating him like some goddamn addict. Ever since that campus paper had come out he'd been subjected to more pitying looks and sideways glances than he knew how to deal with, and now some rather attractive blonde was sympathizing with his withdrawal. No way was he going to deal with this.

"I've got some aspirin for you, if you need. I'm studying in the corner, you're welcome to join."

Sherlock turned back to hurl some insult, tell him he didn't need any help, get this pale boy away from him, but when he looked straight into Victor's face he noticed something was wrong. His pupils were _massive_. They seemed to take up almost the entirety of his eyes, the metallic grey of his normal hues were blacked out.

Of course, Victor had picked up some cocaine today, Sherlock knew that, so he must be high now. Needed to do some coursework and needed a pick me up…

_Aspirin_… _aspirin… _

Something clicked within Sherlock as he realized exactly what the boy was offering and he found himself standing and collecting his things before he had mentally processed the reaction. Victor grinned, leaning his weight onto Sherlock's chair as the raven-haired youth stumbled around collecting his things, practically bouncing with excitement.

Victor led him silently over to a small enclave in the back of the library floor. It was walled in on two sides with just enough room for a couple people inside and was out of sight of everyone who wasn't standing directly parallel to the opening. Sherlock sat in one of the chairs, watching interestedly as Victor pulled a small bag of powder out of his coat pocket, tapping some out onto his dorm key, making sure not to spill any. He gingerly pushed the key towards Sherlock, the grin on his face growing all the while.

Upon picking up the powder, Sherlock felt a tingle throughout his body like something in the universe was lining up correctly for the first time in _days_. He quickly snorted the coke, sighing contentedly at the sudden storm in his capillaries, at the warmth and serenity pumping throughout his body. He closed his eyes as his body equilibrated, reaching homeostasis. Upon opening his eyes, Sherlock was met with a smirk from his blonde partner in illicit activities.

"It's good, isn't it, getting what you want after so long without?"

Sherlock paused, before nodding his assent. He didn't have anything to say about that, but agreed with it entirely. He finally felt _right_. And Mycroft couldn't find out about his consumption in the library, there were no cameras or agents watching him. Sherlock looked across the table at Victor, feeling his face twist into a grin. God, he felt _good_.

"I feel as though I've reached homeostasis once more."

Victor laughed softly, the look on his face both amused and confused. "I don't know what that means, Sherlock, but I'm going to assume you're fine."

"Better than fine, actually."

"That's all I could ask for."

Victor turned back to the paper he was writing, grabbing Plato's _Republic _from where he had left it face down on the desk. He began flipping through the pages, obviously about to go back to work. "I've got this paper on whether Plato described dystopia or utopia due tomorrow at nine. Heinous subject, but it's got to be done. What're you doing?"

"Sebastian Moran's economics term paper on the taxation of cigarettes."

"Need the cash?"

"My brother cut me off and I need money to sustain the habit."

Sherlock didn't quite know why he was opening up to this other boy. He had never talked frankly about his drug use with anyone let alone some vagabond boy he'd barely met today. Didn't know anything about him despite the topic of his term paper, his name, and the deductions of dangerous activities (which were entirely accurate, he realized, as he'd just snorted cocaine in a _library_). However, there was something easy-going about Victor's nature that made Sherlock feel comfortable. He knew Victor wouldn't judge his actions like everyone else, and maybe even would understand, more than anyone on campus, the social workers, and especially more than _bleeding Mycroft_.

Victor nodded, glancing up from his book. "Been there."

"How'd you get the cash?"

Victor shrugged, feigning nonchalance. Despite this, Sherlock noted a flash in his eyes and the whisper of a hard grimace. "Won money at drag racing mostly. Did some odd jobs. Things like that." His voice was casual, but the tension in his shoulders told of some unearthed secrets. Sherlock opened his mouth, about to pry as he _always _did when a puzzle presented itself, but found his cocaine-addled mind logically shutting him down. _No, let him keep his secrets_.

Sherlock turned back to the economics textbooks and let the subject drop. He had work to do if he was going to get enough cocaine to get him through the next few days, and Victor didn't appear in the mood for talking anymore. Victor was sitting in the chair across from him, staring at the book pages without really reading anything (obvious by the lack of eye movement).

Sherlock let him be. It was the least he could do for the man who had just given him his white mistress.

It was almost dawn when Sherlock and Victor finished their work, having only topped off once around 2 am. As the boys exited the library they both lit cigarettes, blowing out the smoke towards the hint of color on the daybreak horizon. Through his coke-calm Sherlock realized that in a strangely sentimental way, he enjoyed the company. Victor blew out a smoke ring beside him before turning, rubbing his eyes. He looked as if he were coming down.

"Thanks for the aspirin," Sherlock quietly mumbled. It felt appropriate to say, somehow.

"No problem. Like I said, I've been there and know it ain't pretty." Victor spoke in a street tone that held just the hint of upper class lilt. The sweater behind the leather.

"No. No, it's not," Sherlock admitted. He turned towards the blond, blowing out another puff of nicotine and chemicals. Victor was watching the pinkish-purple color rising over the trees and houses in the background, a feral smile on his wild face. Sherlock was struck once more with a plethora of questions about the man, and was once again discouraged that he could find no hint at answers in the young man, just a sort of intoxicating sense of curiosity. Victor was wild, restless, and Sherlock found himself magnetically pulled towards him. He blinked and turned away as he realized he'd been staring at his companion for what was probably an unnatural length of time.

"I should be heading off," Sherlock mumbled, feeling uncomfortable. Maybe it was because the bulk of his cocaine high was wearing off or because he suddenly found himself confused and wary of the present situation, but he needed to remove himself, needed the distance.

Victor nodded slowly, still watching the horizon intently. He dropped his dying cigarette on the ground, stomping on it lightly. "Sure thing, mate."

Sherlock turned to go, swirling his peacoat behind him when Victor interrupted. "Hold up, some friends and I may be going to a club this weekend. Good music and a good chance to get some better blow than they've got on campus. You're welcome to join if you haven't got anything to do."

"I haven't," Sherlock replied before he was entirely conscious of his desire to accept the invite. _Wasn't cocaine supposed to make things easier to understand?_

"Cool. Catch you around, then."

With that, Victor turned to stalk off, lighting another cigarette on his way.

Sherlock returned to his dorm. He wasn't in the least bit tired, and since he didn't presently have any chemicals available for experiments after the campus police swept his room and all his schoolwork was done, he found himself digging his violin out from under his bed.

He wasn't entirely sure where the swelling and sweet melody he was playing came from, but it fit the moment somehow. As the first rays of sunlight hit the floor of Sherlock's room he played, his fingers nimbly leaping across the strings.

* * *

The club smelled of cigarettes laced with weed, sweat, and the scent of cheap booze. The multi-colored lights flashed across the floor that was packed with young men and women, teeth glowing macabrely under the piercing black light. Glow sticks were being thrown through the air and a man with light up gloves weaved his way past, waving his hands around in an entrancing spiral. The music pulsating through the speakers was some remix of an old punk song that Sherlock had remembered hearing before.

If Sherlock hadn't snorted two lines before entering, he was sure he would have had a breakdown. Even with the cocaine in his capillaries, he felt slightly nauseated by the overwhelming stimuli in the room. The lights particularly hurt his dilated pupils. He was aware that in his youth this sort of scene would have led him to some sort of attack, scratching at his skin or banging his head to give him some sense of stability. Not anymore, though, his drug was keeping him calm, protecting him. He felt very safe.

Victor stood next to him, wearing his usual studded leather jacket and ragged jeans. His pupils matched Sherlock's as he stared around, grinning wickedly.

"Good turn out tonight. Now, we've got to find Gloria. She'll be around here somewhere."

Sherlock had no clue who Gloria was, but wasn't in the mood for standing alone in a strange club, so he hurried after Victor who was blazing a trail through the crowd. The blonde moved to the back, opening an exit door and stepping out into the dirty street just outside. _Leaving so soon? _Not that Sherlock was particularly thrilled with the scene, but if he was going to experience new things he wanted to do it fully. All or nothing.

As Sherlock stepped out into the cool air outside, he saw Victor caught in a vigorous embrace. The young woman hugging him stepped back and Sherlock was able to take a closer look. She was willowy and tall with short brown hair that spiked around her ears and deep brown eyes. Dressed in black jeans and an artfully torn black t-shirt that just hinted at her midriff and jauntily smoking a cigarette (was that a cigarette?), the girl fit the underground scene he had walked into. She grinned towards Victor, pulling the cigarette (needed more data on that one) out of her mouth.

"Hey Vic, wasn't sure when you would be turning up."

"I knew you'd be out here smoking. You're headed towards early death by lung cancer, Gloria, you best slow down."

"I only smoke when it's worth my while," she replied, placing a hand on her tiny hip and pulling another drag. "This joint is definitely worth my while."

"H-bomb?" Victor asked.

Gloria smiled in wicked affirmation and took another hit. "You're welcome to try. You or you friend." She motioned towards Sherlock, offering out the cigarette or whatever it was. Sherlock wasn't too sure what an h-bomb was, actually. Didn't want to ruin his cocaine high with what smelled for all purposes like weed though.

Victor shook his head. "Don't like mixing my weed and heroin, love. You've asked before."

Gloria shrugged. "I'll keep asking anyways. Do you want to try?" Her brown eyes turned towards Sherlock.

Sherlock quickly shook his head. That sounded like the _worst _possible combination; weed and opiates, could she be serious? Who in their right mind would want that? Gloria seemed to be enjoying it though. She held out a lazy hand to him, swaying slightly on the spot at the sudden movement.

"Gloria Scott," she said.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock intoned, quickly shaking her spindly hand.

"Why have I heard that name before?"

"He's the Oxford bloke who jumped out of a building," Victor butted in, lighting up as he said so.

Gloria's eyes lit up in recognition. "Ah yes, I _have_ heard of you. Quite the campus celebrity these days."

Sherlock scowled, not even attempting to hide his disdain. "Oxford student, are you?" he commented rudely, tossing up walls around him in his usual defense.

Gloria smirked at the jab, but didn't take the bait. "Not presently." She turned back to Victor, swiping a choppy piece of hair away from her face. The movement seemed to throw her off a bit. "So are we going to dance or just stand around smoking?"

"Dancing sounds good. You coming Sherlock?"

The next few hours were absolutely surreal. It probably didn't help that Victor had ordered everyone a round of shots and then insisted on taking a shot on the hour every hour for the rest of the night. It wasn't exactly Sherlock's cup of tea, and the harsh liquid reminded him of chemical experiments as he it burned down his esophagus, but he was enjoying himself nonetheless, despite the fact that the world was swirling more and more and he found himself more and more unstable as the night went on.

They had met up with a burly man named Bruce late in the night. Gloria and Victor had been dancing for most of that time while Sherlock watched idly on the edge of the dance floor. Human interaction was so intriguing sometimes; it was easier to watch from afar than to participate, especially since he didn't know the rules (his altered state didn't help that much either). Gloria and Victor seemed to match each other, spinning and moving fluidly. At one point they had been leisurely snogging on the dance floor, which upset Sherlock for some unacknowledged reason. Yet, when Bruce showed up, Gloria had immediately detached from Victor and had started dancing with the other man. Victor grinned, looking around for Sherlock. When he caught him standing at the corner, he stalked over. The lights flashing on the floor made his blonde hair almost translucent and the colors etched onto his face gave him an ethereal glow.

"Having fun, mate?"

Sherlock nodded. He _was _having fun. It was so _interesting _watching the other humans around him interacting with each other without paying him any mind nor giving him any negative attention.

Victor checked his watch before grabbing onto Sherlock's arm. The blond led him over to the bar without protest, ordering another round of shots. He picked up one of the glasses, filled to the brim with a bright blue liquid. Sherlock took the other, mentally preparing himself for the burn of pure ethanol.

"Almost four a.m., got to take another," Victor was saying before he cocked back the glass and slid the shot down his throat. He slammed the shot glass on the table as he finished. Sherlock downed his in a single gulp as well. He could feel the buzz from the alcohol almost instantly, which was probably good because he'd begun coming down from coke about an hour or so ago. The vodka was definitely helping keep some of the crashing symptoms at bay, at least until he could do some more.

"So you and Gloria, are you… together?" Sherlock asked. He attempted to make the question sound innocent, matching his intonation to how any other _normal _person would ask their friend about their romantic life. If there was a hint of jealousy in there, though, Victor didn't seem to notice.

"We've hooked up a few times before, but it's nothing serious. We're mostly just friends with some benefits on the side." Victor shrugged, checking his watch.

The relief and confusion that swept over the scientist was shocking in its intensity. Sherlock nodded because he felt it was the appropriate response, though he didn't quite understand what Victor had meant. It was obvious that the boy had been with more people than himself, you didn't need to be a deductive genius to see that (also, when your romantic experience is nil, anyone can be better than you). Victor also had a fairly strong reputation for being a player of both courts at uni. Victor desired sex, or at least some sort of partnership, from anyone, male or female.

Sherlock himself had never felt that desire with more than a small handful of people, each of them unreciprocated. There had been the smart, witty girl in his youth with the short hair who had been the only one nice to him on the playground (which was truthfully, the only reason he'd liked her), and a handful of boys who had physically intrigued him in secondary school.

Though he could honestly say nobody to date intrigued him as much as the blond walking beside him.

There was just something about Victor, something Sherlock just didn't quite understand. A part of him that for all Sherlock's genius, he just could not seem to figure out. Sherlock was a scientist, good at breaking things down into basic particles and components and then using logic to restructure a whole, tangible something out of the smaller parts. Yet no matter how much Sherlock ruminated on Victor Trevor, there were still some parts that were a mystery, some sections of the man that despite all his deduction and his reasoning, Sherlock couldn't figure out. It was infuriating and invigorating. The mystery was addictive and Sherlock wanted more.

"Are we going to stay here until dawn, or is there some other plans in the works?" Sherlock asked, more out of curiosity than a true desire to leave. It was warm and interesting; with enough stimuli to keep his mind busy, and with the combination of drugs and alcohol he was enjoying not being overwhelmed by everything around him for once.

Victor's feral grin reflected in the dim, colored lights. "Why, you want to go somewhere else, Sherl?"

_Sherl? When had that become his nickname? _He didn't mind it, though, so he let the petname slide. Maybe tomorrow he'd correct Victor.

"Why not, _Vic_," he tossed back, feeling the right side of his face twisting into a half-smile.

"As you wish."

* * *

Victor glanced over at the dark-haired boy next to him, lighting up a cigarette as they exited the train towards Oxford. He too lit a fag, the inhalation feeling more natural than breathing in fresh air. He should probably slow down with these things, knew it was the healthier option, but some side of him loved even this simple dance with danger. Yeah, he may get lung cancer, but when you didn't think you'd make it past thirty anyways the way things were going, it didn't really matter, did it?

Sherlock was silent, had been since they'd left the club. He had claimed to enjoy himself, and Victor knew intuitively that he had, even if he hadn't stepped one foot on the dance floor. That wasn't his way, it seemed, more of an observer than a doer. Except when it came to drugs, he supposed. Sherlock was always down for that.

"You've been quiet for awhile, Sherlock. Crashing or something?" Victor's drugs had worn off a couple hours ago, and he knew that his friends had as well. Sherlock shook his head, taking another drag.

"No. Well, yes, but no. I was just thinking."

"About what."

"About you, actually."

The admission was earnest, and said in such an innocent way Victor had to crack a grin. "Oh yeah, what about me?"

"Tonight, are your nights always like this? Full of girls and parties and drugs?"

"A lot of them are. Though sometimes I swap out the girls for some blokes. And then there are those really wild nights when I drag race. If you think tonight was exciting you haven't seen anything, mate." He wasn't bragging, wasn't saying these things to make himself seem edgy or cool. It was just what he did, and there was no use denying it. People spoke about their passions, and adventure just happened to be Victor's.

"You like danger." It wasn't a question. Victor turned to his dark-haired companion, who looked back at him with piercing grey eyes even in the dim light.

"I do," he admitted.

"Why?"

Victor blew out a puff of smoke, sighing slightly as he searched around for the right words. "It freezes things, I guess, makes everything suddenly clear, makes it all stand still. When there's a possibility that you might die so much more seems worth it. I dunno, it just slows everything down."

The answer seemed to resonate within his companion. The look he gave him was more emotional than Victor had ever seen the usually cold chemist. It was sympathetic and honest, and if Victor was going to admit it he felt a tug somewhere in the pit of his stomach.

"You know you've got a reputation on campus."

"I know I have."

"They say you sleep around."

"I do."

"They say you'll sleep with just about anyone."

Victor laughed. "Just about. I have to like them, though. They've got to grab me. I may have low standards but I still have some."

"And that's all you do, you just sleep with them. That's it. Done."

"That's been my history, yes."

Sherlock nodded, growing silent. Victor looked over at the dark haired young man. The lights from the streetlamps made his edged cheekbones seem even more sunken in, that with the malnourished junkie look he was sporting. He appeared rigid and unbending, firm and cold, yet Victor knew there was a fire underneath that exterior. Nobody without that flame would jump out of a window for science or snort as much cocaine as Sherlock did. He was dangerous and edgy, all layered up in a scientific enigma. It was absolutely enthralling. Victor could almost taste the metallic tang on his tongue, the one that felt like he'd licked a galvanized copper penny, the one that let him know that he was _excited _and that there was adrenaline pumping through his veins. Victor wanted to melt that ice and get to the _fire _inside his companion, wanted to watch those flames dance. He hadn't felt this invigorated by another person in what felt like ages. His boredom was forgotten for the moment.

They were nearing Victor's dorm now. As they approached the door, Victor stamped out his cigarette and turned to Sherlock.

"You want to come in for a bit, Sherl? I know you won't be sleeping from the blow, and we could top up if you want." If he knew the young man at all, he knew that Sherlock couldn't resist a free high. Not that Victor was using drugs to get his way, that would be altogether dirty, but he was using his cards in his favor.

"That sounds good, actually."

Victor led them through the door and down the hall, unlocking his single with the keys in his back pocket. He motioned for Sherlock to enter then closed the door behind them. No sooner had he shut the door but he advanced towards the lanky young man, pulling him closer into his aggressive yet still soft kiss. They held it for a moment before Sherlock gently pushed away. It wasn't the kind of push that alerted Victor and told him he was out of line. It was just out of shock.

"Wha'?" his companion mumbled, his eyes wide.

"I told you, Sherlock, I like who I like. You're one of those people."

Sherlock seemed to go distant in the eyes for a second as if he was mentally processing what had just happened, though even as he went still his body seemed to have a mind of its own. In moments Victor's leather jacket and Sherlock's pea coat were lying on the floor, and Sherlock was sporting a feral grin, looking etched in the scant light, his alabaster skin glowing and his dark hair etching sharp shadows on his face. He looked _dangerous _and _delicious_.

"You interest me, Victor Trevor," he intoned in his low baritone. "You are definitely _not _boring."

Victor offered him some blow on his room key, as he placed some of the powder in the crook of his own thumb and forefinger. After they'd both snorted, their lips met once more.

The sun rose on two boys lying in bed, smoking cigarettes despite building codes, looking peaceful, high, but altogether happy.


	4. A Fire Ablaze

Victor was not known for sticking around. In fact, his reputation was of doing quite the opposite. He had a tendency to initiate things, loved the idea of beginnings. He ached for the novelty of a new fling or a novel drug, an un-driven race course or a new kink. Then the high would wane, the endorphins would kick back down, and he'd be filled with the same caustic boredom that had combusted within him before.

Beginnings were easy and always fun.

Endings were only hard if you stuck around long enough to let the story get to the middle.

So Victor would do the only sensible thing, cut off contact before the exposition of the story got too far along. It was easy, and if he left behind him a string of broken hearts and a phone chock full of names and numbers he couldn't recall actually obtaining, that was all fine to him.

Sherlock, though, somehow it wasn't so easy. The exposition of their story had been going on for a few weeks now, and ironically enough he was not bored yet, was actually enjoying the build of a relationship for once. And that was _interesting _and kept his internal combustion at bay.

Sherlock was a mystery wrapped in an enigma, and no amount of talking ever seemed to excavate what lay trapped under those raven curls.

Which was so _delightful_.

He had alighted Sherlock with his fire. There was no backing down now.

Victor was never really one for surrender anyways.

Sherlock, for his part, was burning away in spectacular fashion. His veins felt vibrant, his thinking lucid, the world around him so absolutely _dull _compared to cocaine and chemistry and Victor.

Victor was the greatest high of all. All the ups without any of the downs. There was white powder and sleepless nights, pumping music and flashing lights, embers light up and tossed away, and always the furtive flashes of fingers on bare skin and bruises on lips, necks, hips. Endorphins, serotonin, dopamine, all flooding through Sherlock with each new action he and Victor took together.

Victor Trevor was simply addicting.

And Sherlock Holmes was a textbook addict.

* * *

They lay in bed together, Victor on the edge, arms wrapped around Sherlock's waist in an attempt to pull himself onto the tiny bed frame. Sherlock lounged casually, arms behind his head, curls lopsided on his forehead. His fingers tapped out a rhythm on the headboard. It was around midday, but the boys had only returned from another round of bar-hopping and clubbing with Gloria a few hours ago. The drugs in their veins made them unable to sleep even though tired, so they'd been lounging around Victor's room ever since.

"Vivaldi's Four Seasons?" Victor murmured, his eyes shut.

Sherlock started a bit, glancing down to the blonde on his chest. "Yes. I'm surprised you knew that."

"Used to play stand up bass when I was younger so I'm familiar with the classics. Much prefer jazz though."

Sherlock scoffed under his breath. "Jazz is for musicians who lack technique."

"And classical music is for musicians who lack intuition and understanding of the music."

"Anyone who thinks they are a special star for being able to understand the basics of underlying rhythm and chord progressions and can use that to make up pointless, cyclical riffs that they force innocent people to listen to for as long as their inflated ego desires, is no musician in my book."

"Alright Sherlock, but anyone who thinks they're better just because they can finger and pluck a fucking string well is an ass."

"I'm already a well-established asshole, I'm okay with continuing within those bounds."

Victor laughed. "You said it, not me." Beneath him, Victor felt the low rumble of Sherlock's baritone laugh, rolling deep within his chest. "I'd like it if you played for me, though. Just once. I haven't heard you play violin."

"I haven't played with an orchestra in years."

"Why does that matter?"

"All the pieces I know sound much fuller with an accompanying orchestra."

"Christ, Sherlock. It's not like I'm asking you to put on a whole performance, and I honestly wouldn't know the difference."

There was a pause before Sherlock sighed. "Fine, one day maybe I'll play for you."

Victor leaned over and kissed Sherlock in the crook of the neck, causing the pale man to groan slightly beneath him. He planted another one lower, another one below that, and as he went down further, feeling Sherlock hard against his chest, he murmured, "I'll show you how good my technique is, you bastard."

Sherlock's laugh turned instantly into a deep, satisfied hum as Victor began unbuckling his dark jeans.

"Fine, I'll definitely play for you."

Victor grinned and proceeded.

* * *

Sherlock was not thrilled to receive a text from Mycroft.

**_Please schedule an appointment with my assistant so I can check up on your wellbeing. Not doing so would be undesirable. _**

****"Who's Mycroft?" Victor asked looking over Sherlock's shoulder. They were lounging in a café a short walk from campus, both of them skipping their dull classes to top up on their caffeine intake for the day. Victor sipped his chai as Sherlock glanced back towards him.

"It's my brother."

"Your parents sure have a thing for antiquated names. What are theirs?"

Sherlock smirked, picking up his black coffee. "Alvin and Violet."

Victor laughed softly, flicking a strand of hair out of his face as he did so. He picked at the muffin before him, obviously none too pleased to eat it. Cocaine did that to your appetite.

"How come I've never heard of this brother of yours?"

Sherlock swirled his cup and looked away, scowling. "Because he's a pompous bastard. My whole family is full of pompous bastards. Always worried about their _dignity _and _the family name _and never leaving enough time for things that are really important. It's bloody ridiculous and egotistical if you ask me."

"No offense, Holmes, but there would be people who'd say you're the egotistical sort."

Sherlock crossed his arms, deciding to not take the bait. "Product of the environment, Trevor."

"No, I'm just saying is that if you say you hate your brother for being an arrogant ass, and you are one yourself, then that must mean that that _isn't _the reason you and… Mycroft?... don't get along."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he regarded Victor across the table. He took another sip of his coffee, contemplating. It was true that his issue with Mycroft ran _far _deeper than his obnoxious habit of being a pretentious twat all the time, or even for the whole spying thing. He really didn't want to explain to Victor that he held a grudge against his brother for other things that were far more sensitive subjects than just his position in government or the fact that Mycroft had a serious power complex.

Sherlock really did _not _want to delve in those currently unearthed memories. Of the feel of the wind on his face as he stood on a roof as a fourteen year old, tears on his face and blood on his hands. Not his blood, his brother's. And how Mycroft had stared so impassively as Gideon's grave was lowered, even though for all intents and purposes, it was Mycroft's fault one of his younger brothers had died.

Sherlock drank heavily, the acidic taste of the coffee hiding the bad taste in his mouth.

No, he certainly wasn't going to tell Victor about that.

"No, he also badgers me constantly about keeping up the family name as if I'm some family screw up and the fact that I just so happen to function at a different level than my automaton congeners is somehow a target for public scrutiny."

Victor shrugged, the steam from his tea wavering in front of his face. "Honestly 'Lock, that sounds like a rich person problem."

Sherlock shrugged and took another long sip. God, he hadn't thought about Gideon in awhile, and the excavated memories were now running on loop in his brain, flashes of colors and sounds and sights that had been tucked away under the floorboards of his mind palace were now roaming through. He could feel a headache coming on. Victor gave him a strange look across the table as he realized he'd been sitting rigid, staring down at the table for what had _felt _like a few moments but in actuality was a couple minutes (cross checked with the fact that the three minute song that had only started when he'd last noticed had now changed to some other tune).

"I have to go, Victor," he muttered, standing up and grabbing his coat. Victor nodded, looking vaguely worried. Sherlock stalked out of the coffee shop, tugging his jacket on.

He _really _needed a hit right now.

* * *

There was white, the blizzard in his skull, and Sherlock was snowblind. Completely caught up in the ravage that was the white mistress in his veins. It was the first time he'd been high alone in ages, and he could already tell that this cut wasn't as pure as Victor's. Yet, the sensation of letting this high be _his _and just his alone was so sweet, especially after it had been so long.

God, he needed cash. His deal with Sebastian had kept him through his habit this long, but his long nights with Victor had left him in definite need of a few quid. And he wasn't going to go ask bloody Mycroft for it. No fucking way.

His eyes wide, he crossed the hallway to knock on Sebastian's door. The smell of marijuana and lube poured out upon the Econ major opening the door, causing Sherlock to flinch as it hit his heightened senses.

"Sherlock, what up mate?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose slightly at the pretense, but stifled it behind a mask of placid rigidity.

"Sebastian. May I come in?"

"Of course, of course."

Sherlock walked through the doorway, the smell only becoming stronger as he got further into Sebastian's territory. Sebastian shut the door behind him slowly.

"I was wondering if there was any work that you'd need me to do."

"Sherlock, it's been a week. Honestly, I don't have that many assignments that need doing."

Sherlock crossed his arms, attempting not to appear absolutely miffed. "It's almost the end of the year, no papers, projects?"

"You strapped for cash, mate?"

Sherlock did not dignify this with a reply.

"I've seen you hanging around campus with that Victor bloke."

Sherlock again did not deem this worthy of response. It was no business of Sebastian's who Sherlock was hanging out with, as long as he kept being paid and Sebastian kept getting top marks on his assignments.

"I would even go so far to say you two are dating."

Sherlock's eyes flashed slightly. "It's no business of yours why Victor Trevor and I are seen together, Sebastian," he snarled. "Are you absolutely sure that you don't have anything for me to do."

"I know something you could do for cash."

Sherlock was well aware at this moment that Sebastian was standing in front of the door and that the look on his face was verging on… seductive…dangerous? Sherlock was never quite good with faces, and that wasn't changing now. Still, he knew that he had to get out of this room.

"I am not interested in anything other than providing you with coursework, Sebastian."

"Come on, a fag junkie like you shouldn't be so quick to say no to a few pounds. I know you're high, Holmes," he said in response to Sherlock's expression. "Your eyes are the size of the moon. And as for a fag, it's apparent to anyone with even half a brain that anyone who hangs out with Victor Trevor is fucking him. Also probably into drugs too, now that you mention it."

Sherlock felt his face flush, and knew that if he weren't so high at the moment, he would not be feeling so calm and collected. As it was, he was unnerved by this interaction. He made towards the door, yet Sebastian did not budge.

"I am not a junkie, Sebastian. My habit is not so that I would be willing to debase myself by performing some meaningless sexual act on a closet case like you," he spat out acerbically. Sebastian only grinned slightly, stepping away from the door.

"Well Holmes, I get it, I get it. Really I do. Not an addict, well that's fine. But from now on I will not be purchasing your brains. I can handle the rest of term on my own. If you want to make money from me, you know how to get it."

Sherlock glared at him and stormed out. Slamming the door to his room, he whirled around and fell against the wall. The cocaine was dulling his terror, but he could still feel it pulsing there right beneath his capillaries, the hemoglobin pumping oxygen through his veins. Fucking Sebastian, Sherlock did need the money but he wasn't so much of an addict that he would… gah absolutely not. He was a bloody Holmes, he had to uphold the family name _somehow _(a useless feat now, as he was already quite frankly the _worst _son ever, no shut down shut down, don't think of this now).

Sherlock could feel the balloon of anxiety rushing into his chest, the feeling exacerbated by the drugs. He shook his head, looking around his room for his coat, the cocaine still nestled inside the seams. He tugged it over his shoulders and left for the restroom down the hall, away from Mycroft's cameras. Inside the stall he siphoned off one eighth of a gram onto his thumb and snorted, the insufflation giving him some comfort from the black claw of tension grasping at his chest. He wasn't willing to admit that he was terrified of who he had become, that the fact was that cocaine and Victor Trevor had gotten him to a place where it was an option to make money from sex.

Thirty seconds later the blizzard is back and the knot in his chest is iced over as the cocaine coats his nervousness and tension, leaving only a dull, throbbing euphoria.

He falls against the walls of the stall, letting the storm rage in his head.

Safe.

Dull.

Safe.

* * *

"Sebastian Wilkes is a fucking cunt," Victor declares the next time that he sees Sherlock. "'Lock, you shouldn't have to worry about your cocaine stash, I can assure that I got a steady flow always coming my way."

Sherlock stopped and looked at him. It was midday and the pair were walking to the train. They were due to meet Gloria and that Bruce character Sherlock had been hastily introduced to a few times. Victor hadn't yet mentioned why. Sherlock had been amped all night, crashed around 5, and woken up to the blonde knocking on his door announcing that Sherlock had to accompany him on an errand. Why Victor needed company was anyone's guess, as he was more than capable of holding his own, but Sherlock suspected sentiment was involved. He felt little remorse for skipping his Polymer Chemistry class, as he was still visibly shaken by es and Sebastian's encounter last night. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure why he'd responded when Victor asked him what was wrong, but his response made him feel calmer for some reason.

"How do you always have the cash for your… _habits_ Victor? As far as I can tell you don't have a job. "

Victor shoved his hands into his pockets and dug out a package of cigarettes, lighting one fluidly. "My dad's got connections and hookups all over the city, he's real well known in the underground." He said this nonchalantly as if he was stating that his father was a salesman or worked as an accountant, but it didn't take a genius (and Sherlock certainly was one), to realize that he was largely uncomfortable with the topic. Sherlock's mind whirred for a moment, parsing the evidence together that he had collected over his last few weeks with Victor.

"He's some sort of kingpin, isn't he, associated in some sort of underground operation."

Victor sighed, exhaling smoke, and glanced over at Sherlock. "Drugs, actually. Smuggling, selling, everything. Half of addicts in London can thank my old man for their shit."

"You said once that you had to do odd jobs to make some cash. If your father is so filthy rich why did you have to do that?"

Victor's feral smirk returned to his face as he flicked his cigarette butt away. "I could ask the same of you Holmes. Family's something kin to bleeding royalty and you're doing Sebastian Wilkes' homework for seventy five quid."

Sherlock scoffed, turning away. He didn't need to explain to Victor the reality of his situation. Of his brother being in charge of the government, of the cameras and spying, of the hypocrisy of his parents' protective nature when they had barely had a hand in raising him at all (leave that to the maids). He supposed then, that Victor probably didn't much feel like explaining his situation either. And although the idea of _not knowing _or of _letting a puzzle be _chaffed at Sherlock's conscious and scratched at his skull, he somehow found himself not pressing, just accepting the secret.

The boys walked in silence, boarded the train, and headed towards London.

Gloria ended up living in a tiny apartment on the East End of London, tucked away above an Italian immigrant-owned pastry shop. When she opened the door to greet them, Sherlock was hit immediately with the smell of cigarettes, weed, and what smelled like 95% ethanol (couldn't be 100%, would just evaporate away, could only be manufactured and bottled when under significant pressure change, read that in a chemistry paper somewhere).

"Hey Vic, Sherlock. Bruce is on his way over, should be here any minute."

The young woman stepped back, allowing the boys to pass through into the _extremely tiny _room, small enough to kick start Sherlock's innate claustrophobia (couldn't stand small spaces, nowhere to go, hide, needed to be up, open space, climbing, a roof, a tree, _anything_).

Gloria casually lit a cigarette, opening the window to let some air flow into the cluttered space. A ratty mattress lay in the corner, blankets and pillows strewn haphazardly over it. A rickety table was pushed into the corner, papers with scribbled notes, cigarette butts, and paraphernalia littering the area. The kitchen set in the corner looked like it hadn't been used in ages. The only neat section was a bookshelf that was tucked into the corner with a plush armchair sitting next to it, a lamp with a crocheted cover hovering over it. Seeing as this was the only thing of particular interest in the small space, Sherlock stalked over to it, peering at the titles.

"Neurovascular Neuropsycholgy?" he asked, straightening up after reading the title of the first book. "The Synaptic Self? Quite the reading selection."

Gloria looked over to him in the corner, smirking as she closed the door. "Surprised that a druggie like me has a brain? Yeah, I read neuropsychology at Oxford before I had to leave due to finances." She looked over at Victor. "Should be going back soon, though, if all goes well."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Interested in the inner workings of the brain?"

Gloria looked at Sherlock fully, her gaze unwavering. "Completely. I want to learn every aspect of what my brain is capable of, and understand the science behind why it does what it does. It's an amazing computer system, capable of things that our limited grasp of computation can't even fathom."

Victor grinned, looking over at Sherlock who was at a loss for words. Only because he was not well versed enough in neurobiology or psychology enough to counteract her arguments or even respond in an intelligent manner, and he hated sounding stupid so silence was really the best option here. _The brain as a computer system.. huh… _

There was a knock at the door then, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had begun to build within the room. A moment later Bruce stepped in his large build seeming to fill the already small apartment.

"Hey Bruce," Victor greeted. The muscular man smiled and nodded towards him before stalking over the table and sitting on one of the wooden chairs as Gloria and Victor flopped onto the mattress in the corner. Sherlock, taking his cue, sat in the armchair that was behind him, steepling his hands under his chin and attempting to look as intensely impassive as possible as his brain whirled. _Must look into this neuropsychology thing, could be a very interesting, doubtless would give some interesting insights into the effects of organic compounds on the body, much more in depth than activation of the sympathetic or parasympathetic nervous system though…_

Sherlock snapped back to attention though as Bruce pulled two enormous bags of cocaine out of the bag he had brought with him. He lay them on the table and looked intensely over at Victor and Gloria. It suddenly made complete sense why they had come.

"Alright then, if I'm going to let you into the business there are some things to go over."

Victor and Gloria nodded.

"Victor probably already knows all of this, so Gloria this is mainly for you. This amount of cocaine, if found in your possession, is a federal offense and can lead to 5 to 40 years in prison. You cannot leave a paper trail. You have to make sure you deal to the right people, and always screen your customers a bit before selling. Gloria, this goes more so for you. Being a female isn't going to help you in this business at all. There are more than enough cokeheads that would be willing to rough you up for a few grams."

"I'll be fine, Bruce," Gloria murmured, flicking her cigarette butt away. It landed inches from Sherlock's feet. "Vic and I figured this out. He'll be taking the male clients and I'll take the women. If someone of the opposite sex asks us for coke, we'll just refer them to the other person."

"I'm just telling you to be careful. You guys will get 70% of the profits, 30% goes to Mr. Trevor's father. Do NOT leave a paper trail. Keep your stash secure. I'll be overseeing you for Victor's father, so I'll check in on you and you can call me if anything goes wrong."

"Thanks Bruce," Victor said, standing up and walking over to the table. He glanced down at the bag, a feral grin spreading across his face.

"Mind if I try?"

Bruce shrugged. "It's fine by me. Just remember you'll be getting 70% of the profits, so if you end up snorting half this stuff yourself, less money will be coming to you."

Victor pinched a bit of the powder out of the bag and inhaled deeply. He cocked his head back to allow the powder to completely pass into his mucus membrane, and got the drip in the back of his throat started. He rubbed his nose, sniffing.

"Good stuff," he replied. "Goes down easy. I'll be fine, Bruce," Victor said, placing the cocaine in his backpack. "Skilled drug dealing runs in my blood, remember?"

Bruce smirked. "I'd be more careful than most if I were you, Victor. If you end up being the straw that breaks the ring's back, he wouldn't have any qualms about making sure you didn't live to do it again."

Victor's face went hard, his voice terse as he replied, "I think I know more so than you what my father is capable of, Bruce." The muscular drug dealer frowned, but made no motion to bring up the subject again. Victor turned back to Sherlock.

"Come on Sherlock, I think we'll just be able to make the next train.

Sherlock stood, pushing his hands into his pockets as he made his way to the door. He followed Victor through, closing the door behind them as the blonde left, not acknowledging the rest of the party as he made his exit.

They walked back towards the train station in silence for a bit, Victor brooding quietly next to him. The wind rustled through the boys' hair and Sherlock tugged his coat tighter around him. He wished for a hit right now, and the knowledge that his companion was carrying more than enough to satiate him was causing an uncomfortable tugging in his chest. Victor's pupils were blown wide as he stared at the pavement below him.

"When did you decide to do this?" he asked Victor. Victor shrugged, his face still grim as he turned to his friend.

"I need the cash? You're right, I don't have a job, never been good at holding one down, and this seems like the easiest way to make a good amount of dough given my connections." A shadow of a smile tore at Victor's pale face. "Didn't I say I'd always have a steady flow coming my way?"

"It's dangerous."

"You knew when you met me that I like danger."

"You could go to prison, Victor."

"I could go to prison for a lot of things I do, Sherlock, this is no different."

He didn't have much to retort to that.

"You could help if you want. Do some running for me, make some money. This way you won't have to suck Sebastian's cock to get your next hit."

The offer was tempting, if only because of the latter statement. Yet Sherlock was aware that in his present situation, with cameras all over his room, his obnoxious Big Brother always having a finger in his life, and the fact that he _really _couldn't tarnish the family name anymore than he already had, he was in no position to accept.

"My brother's a high ranking government official, Victor. Being caught dealing could ruin his career."

"I thought you didn't care about your brother at all, 'Lock."

Sherlock grimaced, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it in silence. He did not deem that statement worthy of reply.

* * *

When the black car pulled up outside of Sherlock's Polymer Chemistry lecture two days later and a well-dressed, attractive assistant stepped out, he thought he had been caught. Only got in the car because the most incriminating thing to do was run. Would make it obvious he was avoiding his brother. So he nodded to Madeline, Mycroft's current assistant, and ducked into the heated backseat of the car.

"Why is it that everything you do, even picking up your brother from his lecture, has to be some sort of grand spectacle? You're in charge of the bloody secret service Mycroft, have a bit more discretion," he announced as he stepped into the underground bunker Mycroft liked to call an office.

"I'm not in charge of MI5 nor MI6 Sherlock."

"Don't tell me you don't do business with them, this office reeks of MI6. Looks like a bloody World War 2 bunker."

"That's what it used to be in fact."

Sherlock almost grinned at the reply, but luckily managed to keep his unresponsive expression glued in place. Mycroft nodded curtly, indicating the seat in front of him. Sherlock huffed at the dismissal before slouching into the black leather chair. Disgustingly expensive. He picked at the edge of the chair nervously.

"Are you thirsty? Hungry? I can have Madeline bring something in."

"I'm fine, Mycroft."

"Tea and biscuits then," he motioned to Madeline who was standing at the door, which was followed by the quiet closing of a door as she slipped out.

"If you need an excuse to allow yourself to exceed your caloric limit for the day, that's fine."

"You look like you could use a biscuit. You've lost weight since the last time I've seen you, which mind you was not a fine condition."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as Mycroft stared at him, his expression so utterly condescending Sherlock wondered how he could ever fancy himself a diplomat.

"What did you bring me here for then?" Sherlock grumbled, still picking absently at the chair. His brother's eyes flicked towards the action, his eyebrow twitching ever so inquisitively. Sherlock's fingers came to a still.

"Just checking up on you, that's all."

"Why don't you just check your cameras?"

"My agents tell me that you haven't been in your room very often. You sometimes are absent for days at a time, and when you are there you've been in the company of another young man."

"So I have a friend, so what?" he spat.

"So this young man is your friend? I thought you didn't much go for that sort of thing."

"Being clean can change a person's perspective."

Mycroft cocked his head to the side, leaning back heavily in his chair.

"Victor Trevor is quite the friend to have, given his records," Mycroft admonished, picking up a file from the top drawer of his desk.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, his body arching into a dangerous crouch. "What the…

"History of drug abuse, petty crime, brief stint in prostitution, not to mention a father who is at the center of an extremely prominent drug ring."

"What the bleeding FUCK Mycroft… you can't… you can't just install _cameras _and then use government information to fucking find out who I'm hanging around with…"

"He's not exactly the kind of person a recovering addict should be hanging out with."

Sherlock was practically feral. "I am not an addict."

"Mr. Trevor certainly is."

"You don't have evidence to support this hypothesis Mycroft."

"His records indicate a tendency towards dangerous and addictive behaviors."

"I don't _need _to know his records, Mycroft. Unlike you I believe in privacy."

Mycroft snorted. "Says the boy who can't help but blurt out deductions about peoples' personal lives every chance he gets.

Sherlock rose from his chair just as Madeline bustled in with a tray of tea and biscuits. Mycroft's gaze remained icy, frozen in place as he regarded his trembling brother.

"Thank you Madeline," Mycroft said, nodding curtly as Madeline left the room. "Please sit down Sherlock, this is ridiculous."

"What's ridiculous is you having a finger in every aspect of my life."

"We've been over this, Sherlock," Mycroft said, his tone clipped. "You're safety is of paramount importance to me."

Sherlock clenched his fists, shaking still. "You mean, of paramount importance to your _career_. Meaning you don't want me fucking around and getting the family name tarnished because Lord knows what that would do to your role in the government or in MI6 or whatever the hell it is you do."

"Keeping you safe is not just an asset to my job, Sherlock."

"So now we're getting _sentimental_? Going to try to add some pathos to your argument, My? Going to try to convince me that the reason you snoop into every aspect of my life is because you care? Caring isn't in the Holmes nature, Mycroft, you're tarnishing the family name more than I already have."

Mycroft sighed, regarding Sherlock with his stony gaze.

"I brought you here as a precaution. I do not want to end up at your bedside again."

"You'll only end up by my bedside if next time I don't end up dead."

Mycroft bristled slightly, folding his hands across his lap.

"Is that what this is about? Is that what you want?"

Sherlock scowled, crossing his arms across his chest, his breathing heavy as he stood in front of his brother. This was ridiculous, why did everyone think he had some sort of death wish?

"No Mycroft, it just so happens that there is risk involved in adrenaline seeking behavior."

"You have had a propensity for that since childhood. I suppose you've always been an addict in some way or another whether it be to cocaine or to death-defying stunts. Or the two together in the most recent case."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "I am _not _an _addict_, Mycroft."

"Well I sure hope you aren't, as our agreement does require you stay clean."

That was it. Sherlock was _done _with his brother's pompous behavior and his snooty face and the bulge in his belly… _god _he was just done with all of this pretention that had plagued his family always. Always dressing to impress, skirting around emotions, ignoring problems and pretending that being civil would mean that everything was alright. Well it _wasn't _obviously, and if Mycroft couldn't fucking see that then he didn't even deserve to know about Sherlock's present state, no matter how many goddamn cameras he installed.

Sherlock stared long and hard at his brother, his lip twitching slightly in distaste, before he whirled around, smoothly donning his peacoat.

"Madeline, please take me home," he shot at the well-dressed assistant as he stalked past, refusing to look back at Mycroft.

Mycroft sighed to himself as his little brother left, leaning back in his chair. He steepled his hands under his chin and stared up at the ceiling. It was obvious his brother was back on the sauce, but Mycroft knew acknowledging his awareness of this fact to Sherlock would be more damaging then helpful. The boy might do something rash, like take one too many lines or _run away again _so help him. No, Sherlock had to be dealt with using the utmost of tact (which Mycroft was aware hadn't been the case in their recent encounter, but when things became difficult it was just so much easier to fall back onto childhood taunts and aggravating behaviors).

He placed Victor Trevor's file back inside his desk before once again reclining and setting his chin in his hands, his gaze lifted upwards.


	5. London Shiver

London was just getting colder, despite the fact that the months were creeping towards spring. Everything was covered in a thick layer of white, the dark bark of the trees eloquently etched against the sparkling, uniform background, Sherlock's breath painted swirling eddies against the stark grey backdrop of the London skyline. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, lighting it with a match as he placed it in his mouth.

Stooping down, he carefully placed his Strad back in its case, collecting and pocketing the smattering of change and bills that had been thrown in from the occasional passer by. He quickly counted the cash, enough for maybe a gram and a half and a couple packs of cigarettes. Enough money to keep him from depraving himself with Sebastian, even though Londoners clearly were deaf, couldn't understand talent when it was licking Vivaldi's 'Winter' off the strings as fluidly as the snow dripping from the trees. No, Londoner's tastes weren't worth shit, especially in classical music.

Sherlock shivered slightly, his last hit being two hours ago with a prepared syringe that he had kept within his lapels for when he needed a top up during his day out on the streets. It had made his playing crystal clear, oh so bright, all those thoughts racing through his head slowed so that the only thing that mattered was the dancing of his fingers across the strings as they plucked and swam with the dither of the F minor key signature. It filled his head, every crevice, no room for any extraneous thought. He was sure that if he had had cocaine back when he was in secondary school, he would've made first chair.

Nevertheless, he was crashing now, the bitter cold seeping in through the warm embrace of his white mistress, the world going a little hard at the edges and his head beginning to ache.

He picked up his Strad and made his way back towards the underground station at the edge of the park, the next train to Oxford arriving in about twelve minutes. He detoured into a dingy coffee shop, bought a black coffee with two sugars, and excused himself into the public restroom. He hastily prepared a single dosage, not caring much about the accuracy of his measurements in his haste, quickly injecting himself.

The initial rush was _**too much **_and _**not enough **_at the same time, warmth rushing like quicksilver through his veins as it touched every extremity of his body, his ears ringing madly with the increased dosage. His mind glossed over, frozen in place, everything slow and perfect.

Sherlock checked his face in the mirror as he exited the bathroom. His eyes were blown wide, his cheekbones pale, pressing too taut against his thinned out face.

He looked like an addict.

Of course, Sherlock knew he wasn't one. Because he was _**in control. **_He was in control of the cocaine.

_[Anyone in control wouldn't have to think about sucking Sebastian off for enough quid for two grams. Anyone in control wouldn't be freezing their ass off playing violin in a shady London park whilst pricking themselves in the arm more to take away the cold then to get high. Anyone in control wouldn't be sleeping with a goddamn cocaine dealer with a father in charge of a distribution ring and a latent death wish a mile wide. Anyone in control wouldn't be so devoted to self-destruction that they'd stay in this downward spiral of an existence where all you can think of is your next hit or the next cigarette or the next orgasm Victor Trevor brings, _a dark place in his Mind whispered, almost covered up by the cocaine bliss but just there enough to inject a thread of black into his white high].

Sherlock exited and picked up his coffee from the counter, wrapping his peacoat around him as he left into the greyscale streets. The steam from the paper mug wrapped around his lean, white hand, adding another lick of movement to the otherwise still moment.

He was _**in control **_of the cocaine, even though the cocaine controlled him, made him more even-tempered, more sociable, more easy to deal with, tethered his thoughts in place so he wouldn't constantly be scrambling around for them. The cocaine calmed him enough to be in control of the cocaine.

Sherlock scowled, sipping slowly at the bitter beverage, his thoughts stuck in the loop of the conundrum in front of him. You can't be in control of something that controls you.

All his life, Sherlock had struggled for total authority over his every action and thought. It was why he'd built a Mind Palace under Mycroft's tutelage from such a young age. He had learned long ago how to keep things inside, locked and tucked away, out of sight and out of mind. It was how he organized, building his Mind Castle brick by brick. Each new bit of information, all his memories were stored in separate rooms—he knew each hallway, each route to access the information if he ever needed to recall it. Some hallways he treaded frequently; the carpets were growing thin, the fabric yielding under constant use. Chemistry, forensics, maps, and physics- these were the things he needed to recall the most.

But total authority, and logic, and the scientific method were constantly overthrown by the lowly sentiment of the human species.

Sherlock Holmes may be a [self-diagnosed] sociopath, but he did feel. He felt more than he was willing to admit and to a degree that embarrassed him. It conflicted with his notion of himself, the figure he was always trying to be. Sherlock Holmes was clever, sharp and logical. He could look at things objectively and from bare, stark facts deduce the truth. How could he allow himself to feel? Feelings got in the way of the fact- they were a meddlesome roadblock to logic. They clouded your decisions, made you disregard details that contradicted your opinions.

Sherlock Holmes couldn't afford to feel.

So he did the only thing he could. He couldn't stop himself from forming emotions- but he could lock them away tightly in his Mind Castle, scatter them under the floorboards and sweep them under the rugs. He could at least pretend he didn't feel, and through this make it look like he was emotionless. He could don his stoic face, the face carved from marble that didn't twitch even at the most harrowing of circumstances. He could become the logical sociopath everyone thought he was.

It was how he had learned control, control over _caring _about things like Redbeard [_a silly dog, getting caught in a hunting trap, survival of the fittest didn't deem him good enough, had to go_], about Mummy and Daddy [_trapped in a marriage they hate only because Mother feels the need to hold Father's affair over him for his life, petty, not worth my time or the emotional investment_] or Mycroft [_bloody stupid Mycroft with his underground operations and superiority complex_]. Because caring was a detriment, a roadblock in the control of the figure Sherlock so desperately wanted to be but couldn't quite become.

And cocaine had helped that control. With cocaine Sherlock just didn't care anymore. Didn't care for his family who he had denounced long ago as long as he still got their money, didn't care about Mycroft, didn't care about school or his grades or his own personal wellbeing. He just _didn't care anymore_.

[_You care about Victor Trevor. You care about cocaine._]

Sherlock felt like running out of his skin and raking his nails across his skin as his thoughts collided, dissonant chord running up and down his lead spine, wasn't supposed to feel like this, highs were supposed to be comfortable with no turbulence in the flight. Was beginning to feel like the night that he'd jumped out the window, the [_gah_] _feeling _overloading.

_shut down_

_ shut down_

_ have to do something _

And as Sherlock boarded the train towards Oxford, the only two thoughts he had, searing like burned flesh across his body, so painful and overwhelming that he couldn't think of anything else, was of getting to Victor and getting to another, better, hit.

Because the two things that he cared about were the only two things that could control him.

* * *

Mycroft knew Sherlock was still using. It didn't take a deductive genius to figure that one out, and Mycroft certainly was one. He also had cameras and quite a few MI5 agents at his service (not to mention most of MI6, unofficially of course, but still…), and Mycroft was not below using them to gather information on his brother from time to time. Mycroft had long ago given up on wondering if what he was doing was right or not. After the last brother passed, and given the circumstances… Mycroft was _not _going to let anything happen to Sherlock. And he certainly was not going to let him destroy himself with drugs.

The only problem was that Sherlock was anything if not stubborn, and had a knack for doing exactly opposite of what he was told. So if Mycroft continued telling him to quit, or took him to rehab, Sherlock would use _more _just to spite Mycroft. Yet, if Mycroft completely took himself out of the picture, Sherlock wouldn't have any boundaries or rules to break and would be a danger to himself even more at that point.

It was a hard tightrope to walk, keeping Sherlock Holmes out of danger but still giving him the excitement he needed.

Mycroft clicked over on his laptop to the live image of Sherlock's dorm room. It had been a couple of days with just a few snippets of him coming in and out to grab clothes, and he still hadn't come back. Probably staying with Victor Trevor. It was impossible to keep track of Sherlock if he was going to skirt around all the methods of monitoring Mycroft was capable of. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, pressing down the intercom button. What he really needed was an insider, someone who could keep a close eye on Sherlock's escapades at all times without needing to hide. Mycroft needed a spy.

The intercom buzzed before Madeline picked up.

"Yes sir."

"Madeline, ask James to go over to 85 Canal St. to see if my brother is there with that… Trevor business."

"Yes sir."

"And Madeline, make sure that I get updated on exactly who else he associates with as well."

"Of course sir."

A spy was exactly what Mycroft needed to keep track of Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Victor ran a hand over his face, his eyes hard as he stared sharply at the wall. The phone lay next to him face up on the table, the LED light still broadcasting the foreboding message from when Victor had just picked up his phone again to stare at the text moments ago, even though it had been hours and the words still hadn't disappeared or rearranged themselves despite all the whiskey he had drank.

_Be home at 19:00. Do not leave. ~J.T. _

Victor had no clue what the message meant at all or why his father was contacting him. Was his father sending a client over to his place at 19:00 and didn't want him to leave so he wouldn't miss him? Was he getting another batch at 19:00? Was Bruce going to be sent to check up on him?

Victor's selling had been… okay, over the past few weeks. Not stellar, but profitable enough to be turning a bit of a cash. He was still building up a reputation, picking up clients. It couldn't be so bad that it warranted some sort of check in from Bruce. Or his father.

Logically, Victor knew that if Bruce was going to be coming, he would have sent a message himself, and a new, important client didn't seem likely when he was two weeks into dealing. Which meant that the only possible reason for this text message was that he was going to be paid a visit from his father. And those never went well. In fact, they usually went horribly.

Victor dragged on a cigarette and took another sip from the cheap whiskey bottle he was holding. The whiskey was taking the edge off of the anxiety that seemed to escalate as 19:00 rolled closer, but it wasn't loosening the knot in his chest or the black fear twisting itself around his stomach. He took another sip, the burn in his throat ebbed by the cloudiness he could already feel in his head.

It was 18:20, he had 40 minutes until whatever was going to happen, happened. Victor wasn't one to give into hollow worry or stress. He thrived on chaos and craved adrenaline. Yet the thought of meeting with his father alone and a few weeks after he became officially employed for him, terrified him.

He took another swig of the amber liquid. His vision was going blurry at the edges, he noted, and the spinning that had started off as a pleasant ebb and flow of reality was starting to make his stomach churn as it intensified.

At least he was going to be horribly drunk when 19:00 rolled around. He may even puke on his father's shoes. He wondered what that would be like, what Jay's reaction would be. None were good, but the thought still amused him, if only because of the raw honesty it showed about their relationship.

Victor was really far too drunk.

The knock on the door startled him, as his eyes had just begun drooping shut as he slouched at the table, the large handle of whiskey sagging to the floor as his grip loosened. Victor began moving towards the door, ready to open it, heart pumping obnoxiously within his chest as it registered that his visitor was early, and he didn't know who it was.

He didn't know if finding Sherlock at his door was a relief or just another grievance.

"What are you doing here 'Lock?"

The cerulean eyes before him scanned over him, those piercing eyes taking in everything, all the data there was to be collected from Victor Trevor at this moment. Even after a month and a half of being constantly with Sherlock Holmes, his deductions were still unnerving. Especially when wasted.

"You're father is coming soon isn't he?"

There was really no use asking Sherlock how he pulled information from thin air anymore, it still would baffle Victor everytime. He usually asked just because he knew the dark-haired teen loved to run his mouth for any audience he could, whether attentive or unwanted. But now he was too nervous to put up with his antics.

"Yeah, he'll be here in thirty."

Sherlock nodded, his thin lips tightening. Victor could tell that he wanted a hit, if only because of the taut way he was standing, the way he seemed to be keeping himself completely rigid for fear that if he moved an inch from the stoic statue he was now, he would reveal the shakiness of his hands, the mania he was suppressing.

Victor wondered if Sherlock knew how to erase any evidence for deduction from himself, if only because he was able to make so many. And why, if he could, Victor could still read him, if only a little.

It was probably because Sherlock tended to neglect the role that their emotional connection had in deductions.

An emotional connection forged in needles and powder, of sunrise sex and the feeling of a heartbeat beneath you as you lie on another's chest. It was cemented in blue static orgasm and nicotine cravings, in the bits of yourself you leave in another's care when you shatter and scatter yourself in their presence.

Victor wasn't even sure if Sherlock was aware of the connection, but it was certainly there in the beats between, in the way he was hovering close to Victor outside the door instead of standing back and waiting like any aquintance would, in the way that sometimes Sherlock would stroke Victor's wheat-blonde hair as the sun shone on it, smoking a joint to attempt to fall asleep, or the small smiles they would share when up studying late in the library, an inside joke neither articulated nor misunderstood.

"Can I come in, please?" Sherlock intoned.

"Is it so you can take a hit?"

"Yes, Mycroft has upped his perimeter of cameras. Wouldn't be surprised if there were any here by now, honestly."

"That's not making me feel any better."

"I know."

Victor sighed through his teeth, biting his lip after he did so as the world swam a little more. He placed a foot backwards to steady himself. Sherlock smirked. Not for the first time, Victor wondered how something that was supposed to be so amusing and inviting in others could seem so savage on that alabaster face.

Victor was really far too drunk.

He held onto the doorframe as he beckoned Sherlock inside.

"You can come in for a few minutes but you can't be here when my visitor comes."

"You mean your father."

"Yeah, him."

Sherlock stepped inside, stripping himself of his black peacoat as he did so and folding it over Victor's rickety wooden chair. He sat down, drawing his powder and syringe out of the lapels, and began getting to work preparing a couple of syringes of his solution, one for now and a few more for later. Victor sat across from him, silently watching him work. Sherlock had a very fluid way of preparing his drugs, which probably stemmed from his studies in chemistry at uni. It was elegant the way he measured everything out, methodical and stepwise. _It's what sets him apart from other junkies_, Victor thought. _Sherlock can make even drug addiction look like the most romantic dance with danger._ He took another swig on the whiskey, urging his unfiltered thoughts forward. _And I love a romantic dance with danger_.

Moments later Sherlock was tying up his arm, inserting the needle, checking that it was within a vein, and injecting himself. He must have been holding his breath, because he exhaled violently when the drugs hit him. It was gorgeous, Victor mused. Like watching a bullet speed through and shatter a cement wall so fast you'd never have seen it coming; it was beautiful and brutal and pure.

"So, honestly Victor, why are you so scared of your father?" Sherlock mumbled, his speech slurring as the cocaine washed through his bloodstream. It usually only lasted for the first few moments, when the high was fresh and new and just crossing the blood-brain barrier, but Sherlock always was a little unfettered after just shooting up.

Victor was feeling unfettered to, the whiskey bottle clinking against his belt buckle reminding him of his amber and grenadine bloodstream, of the quicksilver lining of his stomach as it revolted against him.

"You know the deal, Sherlock, we don't talk about those things."

"I told you about Mycroft… now you have to tell me."

Usually such a petty bribe wouldn't ruffle Victor at all, but he was drunk and he was scared and in front of him was a rather incoherent person to talk to. On some level he assumed Sherlock might not even remember half of the things he might tell him if he let loose, and the other half knew that Sherlock Holmes had an eidetic memory and not even the rush of cocaine could make him forget.

Either way, he spoke.

"He's a brutal man, capable of more violence and cruelty than I care to deal with."

Those cerulean eyes rolled upwards as Sherlock scoffed. "I already knew that Victor, that's not what I meant."

Victor's eyes narrowed. "Tell me what you do know then, 'Lock, huh, seeing as you're so good at deduction and all. See what you can make of this without me talking?"

Sherlock sat forward a bit, his track marked arms bared as he clasped his hands on the table, his eyes suddenly bright, and narrowed in, and interested. It was both overwhelmingly attractive and overwhelmingly nerve-wracking.

Sherlock took a breath.

"The fact that there's a history of violence between the two of you is apparent, and you show symptoms of childhood trauma and PTSD so I'd say that this goes back a long time. Everytime you mention him you seem to dissociate, distance yourself, you scratch the inside of your wrist, a nervous tic to keep you focused on the present, and you've already mentioned several times that your father is a violent man. Easy enough to piece together. However, you left eventually, young and on the streets. Your father didn't like that, control freak. You're wondering how I know that. Easy enough to deduce that bit, given that my brother is bloody fucking Mycroft, ring leader of any sort of underground operation you could possibly think of, and he's a bloody great control freak if there ever was one. Sold yourself for money, because you're young and a pretty face and desire sex anyways, so what could be easier than having sex for money? Got hooked on hard drugs around then, I'd reckon, given character evidence and statistics from youth prostitution. That eventually led you back to your dad seeing as he _is _the kingpin for any sort of drugs… and something else happened? You have family that you don't talk about, you were too interested in my family, too emotionally invested to just be the product of an abusive single father. What was it a sister? A mother? Ah, recognition, mother it is then. You have a mother, probably became the target of abuse when you left."

Again, Victor should really be less shocked at Sherlock deductions.

Victor sighed, swiping at his eyes. "Mum left after awhile, and I was so busy on the streets I didn't know until it was too late to find her again." He turned to stare out the window, his face falling slightly with the memory. He didn't mention to Sherlock that he was the one who paid for the hospital bills she racked up from going to emergency care after his father had a particularly volative night, selling his body to more depraved men and women than he cared to think about at the moment. He didn't mention that she would stroke his hair when he was younger, holding an ice pack up to his bruising eyes. And Victor certainly didn't mention that he could have helped her leave earlier if he hadn't spent so much money on the heroin that lulled him enough to accept his job and the cocaine that made him happy when he didn't want to think about what he had become, a whore and a junkie.

And he certainly didn't want to mention the whoring, he had suppressed those memories long ago.

If Sherlock was as good at deductions as he claimed, he would probably figure those things out eventually anyways.

Victor looked back over at the piercing gaze fixed on him across the table, the initial head rush apparently worn off and just as coherent, although perhaps a little less on edge, then before.

Victor took another sip of whiskey. Sherlock's eyes followed his movement, reminding Victor of a viper.

"You really are much too dependent on substances to alter your moods, Victor," the baritone across the table intoned.

Victor scoffed, taking another swig. "You're one to talk, 'Lock."

Sherlock laughed deep within his throat, stretching himself cat-like as he relaxed into the seat, something he would never be able to do without cocaine.

Victor had never actually hung out with Sherlock sober, now that he thought about. Victor stared at the raven-haired boy from across the table, mulling over the fact that despite their being together for almost two months, he still couldn't make heads or tails of his character, of his past, of who he really was. Victor could see the relaxed Sherlock, could see the soft sides he had that weren't laced with hydrochloric acid or covered in sandpaper, and he knew the callous act Sherlock projected outwards pretending for all intents and purposes that that was who he was. Yet he still felt that for all the layers he had unpeeled there was still more to be unearthed there. And it was mesmerizing and infuriating and Victor both loved it and hated it.

He leaned forward. "So how about you, Sherlock, tell me why you hate your brother so much."

Sherlock stiffened slightly, bringing his arms down from over his head to rest on top of the table. He looked up, steepling his hands under his chin as if thinking, grimacing slightly, before he intensely fixed his gaze on Victor.

"I dislike my brother because of my brother."

Victor rolled his eyes.

"That's one hell of an answer, Sherlock. I know you think he's a pompous ass but…"

"No, there are three Holmes boys."

Victor blanched, eyes widening. "Oh, so there's another one of you? Jesus…"

Sherlock's stare narrowed slightly. "No, Victor, there _was _another one of us."

Before Victor could fully process what that meant, there was a sharp knock at the door. Victor checked his phone. It was ten minutes earlier than he was expecting his mysterious visitor. His throat tightened and his chest compressed spinning him into a panic that was just exacerbated by the whiskey lining his stomach.

What had been a joke minutes before might actually become a reality; he might puke on his father's shoes.

Sherlock watched Victor curiously, before standing and walking towards the door. "Well if you're not going to get it," he called out softly, although Victor knew it was more because he was doing a favor for his lover than he was being callous. It helped a bit.

The door opened to reveal Jay Trevor, blue tattoos snaking around his neck from under the deep red shirt he wore, his eyes narrowed, his face pulled back permanently in a sneer as though he had spent a large amount of time in a wind tunnel.

Victor had always been glad he resembled his mother.

"Who're you?" Jay asked, eyeing Sherlock with beady eyes. From anyone else the question would have seemed innocent, if not a bit cold, but when Jay said it there was danger pulsing underneath, an unspoken threat that could easily be backed up. Victor froze where he sat upon hearing the voice.

Sherlock on the other hand didn't seem to be phased at all. "I'm a colleague of Victor's."

"Whatever," was the gruff reply. Jay stepped into the small dorm room. To Victor he seemed to fill all available space and the supply of oxygen within the room decreased dramatically. Mr. Trevor turned his gaze upon Victor, the sneer on his face appearing to grow. "You, boy." He pointed a finger towards him, the fist hard and steady, the finger hinting at consequences later to come. Victor resisted the urge to step backwards.

"Yeah," he answered, masking his voice to sound uninterested. He had a feeling he was being blamed for something that he wasn't aware of being at fault for. The scene was all too familiar and not exactly a route he wanted to continue down. Jay moved further into the room, sitting down at the table that Sherlock had previously been in, the peacoat still draped over the back. Sherlock closed the door quietly behind him, reminding Victor of his presence in the room once more. Jay eyed the almost finished whiskey bottle and looked over knowingly at Victor. He smiled, his teeth pearly white and straight, his eyes beady and piercing, but not with the same all knowing, superior intensity that Sherlock had. Jay Trevor looked like a rat, average and common looking on the exterior, but was intelligent, vicious, kniving, capable of murder and death. Jay took a sip of the whiskey.

"I see you're making the best of your education."

"My habits have no say on my education, sir."

"Yes, I'm sure the scholarship committee would be so pleased to know they're giving a full ride to a cokehead and drunk."

Victor scowled, choosing his words carefully. "It is and has never been your business what or how I do my education, seeing as you were none too helpful in bringing it around."

Jay eyed him carefully, seeming to weigh whether or not there was any slight hidden within his statement. He seemed to come to the conclusion that there either wasn't a slight or that he didn't care that it was one.

"Well, you are working for me now, aren't you, so you still rely on me for something."

Victor did not rise to the bait though his stomach roiled with anger.

"It's 7 pm, sir, and I am here. What is it that you came here for?"

Jay took another sip of the amber whiskey.

"Ever heard of anyone named Armitage, Victor?"

Victor frowned wondering at the importance. "No."

Jay nodded, slowly. "A man named Armitage contacted me a few nights ago. A man I haven't heard from in years. Wanted to know if he could join the ring. Said he knew about you too."

"I don't understand."

"See, when I parted with this man twenty years ago I had no intention of ever seeing him again, you understand. And no one in the ring besides you and Bruce know of our connection as father and son. Except for that girl of yours, I guess. Gloria Scott. So you see my problem, right? One of you must have been the one to first come in contact with Armitage."

The pieces were coming together, but Victor was tiring of the mundane speech. This was always how it was, wasn't it, long drawn out discussion, straight faces, lulling them into a state of security before the string broke and the fists flew. He steadied himself against the table.

"Thing is, Armitage contacted me at my personal residences. And no one knows that except for you. So, you must have been the one to put him in contact with me."

Jay stood then, the smile on his face seemingly frozen in place, his face cold and icy. Victor's heart thumped within his chest, in his ears, through his fingertips. He regretted drinking so much now.

"So you were never in contact with a man named Armitage?"

Victor shook his head.

The fist flew out of nowhere and collided heavily with Victor's chin. A dark shape moved forward from the corner next to the door. Jay turned slowly around.

"I don't give a fuck if you're sucking my son off or not, if you get involved I will personally ensure that you won't have a cock for anyone to throat ever again."

Victor clutched at his face, standing with the aid of the table, his head buzzing.

"I don't know anyone named Armitage."

He was bracing himself for another fist, because that was the pattern, that's what always had happened before, but instead Jay just stepped back, placing his hands into his jeans, his foot tapping on the floor.

"Well, I'll find out either way. And if you're wrong, well, I'm sure you know what I'm capable of." Victor noted that he seemed to be fiddling with something in his pocket, the silver handle flashing and clashing with the jeans. It was his knife, Victor realized with a lump in his throat. And he was sure it wasn't an accident that he was fiddling with that now.

"If I hear anything, I'll let you know," he managed to say.

"I'm sure. And, this is personal business, which is why I came here _in person_ tonight. Which means that no one besides you and this cocksucker can know about it," Jay said, gesturing towards Sherlock in the corner.

"Yes sir," Victor meekly muttered, his ears still ringing from the punch.

Jay nodded slowly, before kicking the chair with the peacoat back into the table and stalking towards the door.

"Oh yeah, and you best be picking up sales on that cocaine as well," he tossed back as casually as asking for take out for dinner.

When the door slammed, Sherlock appeared from out of the corner. For someone who usually could make such a statement just by his imposing presence, he had quite the knack for secrecy, Victor noted. The blonde stalked over to the mini fridge in the corner, riffling through the beers and vodka to get to an ice pack in the back, which he pressed against his face. His jaw throbbed in the way that told him it would be a pretty bad bruise, but wasn't near to broken. It could have been much worse, he knew, but that still didn't make things better.

He was shaken, he was shaken to the core. He pressed the ice firmer against his cheek. Sherlock moved closer to him, his footsteps echoing throughout the quiet room. Victor stood from his crouch and faced him, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. He felt dull and bogged down, his head slumping from the pain and the whiskey.

Sherlock stood uncomfortably, looking ashamed at having witnessed something he shouldn't have, for being there when Victor had been brought low. He self-consciously held his arms across his chest, appearing put together despite the tearing at the seams.

"I can see why you don't like him."

Victor just let out a bleak laugh, inhaling through his nose as it hurt his jaw. He looked up at Sherlock. "That was a good day. A very good day. If he decides to come back for some reason, it wouldn't be this nice."

He was mounting his façade, the one of the carefree adrenaline addict, the one who laughs giddily as he takes a treacherous turn in a drag race, or brushes off the effects of a fight. He was not weak, he was a man to look up to and follow, to flock to and hold onto his coattails and hope that some of the dangerous, galvanizing magic would rub off on them.

In actuality, Victor Trevor was none of these things, no Pied Piper for the underground of London or a demigod with a propensity for adventure. He was just a scared and scarred kid who ran from old problems into new ones and had the ability of melding himself into each new role he was faced with. An actor on the stage of a broken home and an upbringing on the streets.

Victor could feel the black blooming of anxiety within his gut, rising through his throat, tears pricking at his eyes.

Flashes of memory ebbed and flowed in his honey-thick head. Chains around his wrists and feet, tethering him to a bed whilst some aging man had his way with him/ the copper taste of blood in his mouth as a particular violent customer hit him with every brutal thrust/ knowing exactly what a person wants when they walk into his room and knowing that there was nothing he could do if he didn't want that. He didn't cry then, through all of that, as awful as it was. Through the bruises and the aching and the dead eyes that stared back at him in the mirror as he searched for another vein to curb his withdrawal. He hadn't once cried.

Of course, he had heroin back then.

Victor looked back up at Sherlock, scratching the inside of his wrist obsessively while the leonine eyes watched his every move, taking in how his face suddenly lit up.

"Sherlock, love," he moaned silkily, all anxiety gone as his next intents swelled inside. "Have you ever tried morphine?"

* * *

Mycroft tensed as the intercom next to him beeped. He pressed the buzzer and leaned in slightly. "Yes?"

Madeline's clipped voice rang static though the system.

"James came back, said he brought a willing participant back with him. Been hanging out with your brother a lot recently, and already an undercover cop for the Trevor ring. She said she's willing to keep tabs on your brother for a price."

"Yes, of course, send her in. Her name please, so I can locate a profile?"

"Gloria Scott."


	6. Morphine Heartbeat

Victor was manic the entire train-ride, not saying much but with a wild look in his eyes as the red mark on the side of his face slowly darkened into a rebellious blotchy black. Sherlock followed, still in his cocaine haze, as they trudged through back alleyways towards the region south of the Thames. They arrived at an aging warehouse around 22:00, Victor still impressively drunk and swaying as he strode up to the door, rapping sharply, his grey eyes masked.

"What do you want?" the college drop-out [easy enough deduction, read Literature, bored, rich parents, disowned] in front of him asked gruffly upon opening the door. Upon seeing Victor's face he let a small grin grow on the right side of his face, giving him a lopsided expression. "Hey Victor."

"Ross, got any morphine?"

Ross nodded, gesturing the pair inside, glancing suspiciously up and down the road. "Who's the friend?" he asked Victor, glancing suspiciously at the dark figure Sherlock imposed upon the doorway as he closed the door.

"He's fine, cokehead, told him to come with me," Victor breathed, the energy within him and the desperation in his interactions ringing in his ever move, every tremor of his body, every scratch upon his wrist. "So, yeah, the morphine, have you got any?"

"O'course. Well, just dope actually. Fresh stock up just two days ago."

Victor slapped a handful of bills in his hand. Sherlock's quick calculation deemed there were at least 100 quid in the exchange.

"As much as this gets, Ross, please."

They went upstairs, joining the five or so other drugged teens lying in varying states of psychosis across the cement floor. The drugs were exchanged, Victor pulled Sherlock back into a corner, rolled up Sherlock's sleeve, prepared a needle, murmuring softly about how Sherlock was going to love this, his fingers feather light across the scientists' pale, skin, track marks already covering the crook of his arm. Victor's mania was rubbing off on Sherlock, who was beginning to feel agitated and nervous. He caught Victor's arm as he filled the syringe. The blond recoiled slightly glancing up at Sherlock feet tapping.

"I'm not sure about this. I'm okay with just cocaine."

"Sherl, it'll be fine."

"I don't want to do this."

"Trust me, you're only saying that because you don't know any better."

Sherlock watched as Victor unclipped his belt and began tying off Sherlock's arm with it, taking his silence as an invitation to continue. And Sherlock couldn't very well back down now even with the trepidation coursing through him, because he was intoxicated by the flare in Victor's eyes as he tapped the syringe to make sure there were no air bubbles and he couldn't say no, not to this, not to him.

As the needle rushed towards his vein, epiphany shot up Sherlock's spine. The line was crossed, he was out of _**control**_, as he consumed a highly controlled substance recreationally while he was already bloody off his rocker on cocaine because his _boyfriend _had told him during something akin to a mental breakdown caused by his involvement in his father's drug ring. His anxiety ran him over like a train racing a bullet, both lethal and deadly but for completely different reasons and with entirely different methods.

The syringe entered the skin, drawing out just a hint of blood before injecting the heroin directly into his bloodstream, his arm tied off with Victor's belt.

And Sherlock had thought he knew opiates because he had taken his mom's Vicodin when he was in secondary school and because of the morphine drip in hospital after he had jumped out the window. But nothing could have prepared him for the hit that heroin had.

_supernova, waves of warmth, pulsing down to a neutron star with an explosion that rivaled the beginnings of the known universe, hydrogen core hydrogen helium hydrogen helium atomic number atomic masse 4_ 121212141414 like a dance through his head_

"It's good isn't it 'Lock?" Victor asked from beside him, tying off his own arm as he prepared to mainline, his voice seeming like static through AM radio frequencies. Sherlock could only moan slightly in reply.

_epitaphs and cathedral hymns, silent prayers in stained-glass hues_

_ morphine heartbeats and the spaces in between _

_ starlight, supernova, fiery tendrils snaking from the base of your skull to the top of your cranium_

_ pushing you down from the void onto the earth_

_ heat continuously expanding from deep in your chest, radiating outwards to your fingertips_

Around 23:00, Sherlock was beginning to feel nausea creep into his soaring high, his stomach roiling just underneath the flight of black tar. He began to sweat through his t-shirt. Victor sat next to him, eyes blown, staring down at his hands in his lap, a slight smile, hinting at the suppressed sad mania underneath. Rain licked the windowpanes.

_bright arcs flowing through the bloodstream, average blood cell takes a minute to circulate entirely through the system, heroin moves at the speed of light _

His stomach flipped over on itself, trying to find anything within himself to purge, but there was nothing. Sherlock hadn't eaten in days.

_ honey dripping down, everything moving through molasses, thoughts moving so slowly there seemed to be none at all except a sensation akin to blue orgasm blue white blue white mistress, good for work, this is play, this is blissful nothing_

Sherlock leaned over and threw up, the stomach acid dark and burning his throat, the awful sensation suddenly masked by the opiate as it vibrated up his esophagus.

He rested his head against the wall as Victor slumped over sideways onto him. Sherlock felt hot and sticky despite their location in a freezing warehouse in winter while it poured rain outside. His insides felt like they were vibrating so fast they became unnoticeable, producing thermal energy through their kinetic motion.

He wiped his mouth at the edges, panting slightly, casually swiping his hand across his jeans.

Sherlock didn't know when he fell asleep, but he knew as he closed his eyes his last thoughts were a racemic mixture of _youfilthyfuckingaddictyoutwatwhathaveyoudone? _and _watercolorraindropspingingonsheetmetalwhileVivaldiresonates._

* * *

Sherlock woke slumped against a grimy white wall, green with moisture, cracks spindling up and down the expanse, water dripping down from the ceiling _drip_ _ drip _ _ _ drip _ drip_, as uneven as Sherlock morphine heartbeat persisting through the darkness behind his half-closed eyelids. Victor lay next to him, his head on his shoulders, honey hair spilling onto Sherlock's grey t-shirt which was covered in sweat. Sherlock flopped his head backwards, hitting the ceiling with a dull thud, interrupting the _drip_ _ drip_. He opened his eyes a bit more, his crystal blue meeting the grey toned warehouse Victor had brought him to. A drug den on the outskirts of London, inhabited constantly by teens looking for a safe place for their fix. The babysitter sat in the corner, smoking a cigarette lazily as he read a passage from _Crime and Punishment. _Rain sloshed against the large windows, the rhythm just off beat with the intonation of the ceiling.

Sherlock's head hurt. Sherlock's body hurt. His stomach lining seemed to be screaming in rage, his esophagus burning with the acid he had expelled, his brain felt like it was marred in a thick bog, murky and disgusting, dripping with shades of dark greens, browns, and blacks. His body was shaking, twitching slightly, and he wasn't sure if this was from malnutrition or from the aftershocks of heroin.

He ran a hand over his face, sitting up slightly. Victor started awake as Sherlock moved underneath him, jerking upwards, looking around startled before relaxing and leaning back onto Sherlock.

"That was quite the trip, wasn't it love?" Victor hummed into Sherlock's sweat-soaked t-shirt. "I forgot, I'd forgotten how good, switched entirely to cocaine after I left the scene, I can't remember why now."

Sherlock murmured a low hum of agreement, closing his eyes as he felt another wave of nausea hit him.

Nothing would have prepared Sherlock for waking up in a drug den covered in sweat and grim, his own vomit layering the floor next to where he had slept, with a golden-headed honey-tongued boy lounging on his lap. He felt dirty, he felt as though ants were crawling under his skin, scratching at his epithelial layer, eating him from the inside out as he became choked on the guilt that stemmed from losing all _**control**_.

He wanted a shower, a nap, some food, and a small voice at the back of his head whispered that he wanted to speak with his brother. Which was absolutely bleeding ridiculous.

Victor moved below him. "Care for a wake up hit, Sherl?" he moaned softly. "I've quite a bit left."

Sherlock looked down at the blond, running his hands through Victor's greasy and sweaty hair. "No, I'm going to head back." He paused. "You could join if you want."

Victor laughed softly, pulling himself up into a sitting position.

"No, love, I'm going to be staying here."

It was still early morning when Sherlock left the warehouse, heading for the train station. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket shakily, his hands still trembling even as he wrapped himself inside his peacoat. He kept his head down even though there weren't many people wandering the streets this early.

Sherlock breathed out nicotine and carcinogens, tilting his head upwards.

The weight of his body just acted to accent the weight he felt inside.

_He needed to slow down_.

The only problem was he wasn't even sure that was an option anymore. Not with his present need for cocaine on a scheduled basis, the fear of withdrawal, and, of course, Victor Trevor. Victor who had last night introduced Sherlock to heroin, for all intents and purposes giving him a speedball given the amount of cocaine he'd already had in his system. Victor who was like biting into a piece of ice, teeth cracking and aching with the frigid pain, but once it melts beneath you the relief you feel is instantaneous and you'll never go back. Victor who was as addictive as any drug and far harder to leave for no reason that Sherlock could comprehend. It's just whenever he thought about it he'd feel a tug right about his stomach and an ache right beneath his rib cage, nestled into the muscle and viscera, and he would think of the golden blue light of morning radiating on the pair of them listening to Vivaldi, or the pulsing of his heartbeat in time with music at clubs as Victor presses another drink into his hand. He thinks of the broken look Victor had given him yesterday after his father had left and the secrets he knew about Sherlock that he kept hidden inside his throat.

He boarded the train, grabbing a bagel from a vendor at the station. He chewed on it blandly as he rode back towards Oxford.

No, he couldn't leave Victor. But he was starting to get the sensation that he couldn't stay either. Not without suffering overdose eventually. Was the fire Victor offered really worth the sensation of lightning rippling up and down your spine as you convulse on the floor?

Sherlock wasn't sure. Because even though the after effects of heroin had been and still were awful, Sherlock couldn't help thinking it was worth the sweeping high. Victor was the same way; the danger was worth the reward.

* * *

Mycroft straightened the stack of papers on his desk, eyes glancing over the girl in front of him. For all intents she looked like someone intimately involved in the drugs scene, stereotypically decked out in eyebrow piercing and septum ring, the hint of a tattoo on her left upper arm, hair intricately mussed. She watched him from across the table eyes glistening with amusement, her mouth torqued up into a mischievous smile.

"Miss Scott, I see from your records that you're associated with the police."

"You'd be correct."

"It would bemuse me to hear how you became involved with them."

Gloria grinned. "Why?"

Mycroft didn't want to give into her childish game of having others define her and trying to amuse them by breaking out of the stereotype. He sighed. "Because I am a political analyst, I know people, I know what people do and why they do it, and you being involved as an undercover cop without any formal training and a degree in Neurological Psychology is an oddity."

She tossed her short cropped hair. "Started as a neurological and psychological advisor for Scotland Yard. The professor I worked under in uni was associated with doing neurobiological testing and screens with both convicted criminals and those about to go to the bar. When I graduated, Scotland Yard picked me up. Said criminal profiling was a handy task for them. Seems like you would know about that."

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow. "You're still young."

"I mean, you're pretty young for running the entire government secretly, and you seem to be doing a good job."

Mycroft scowled slightly at her knowledge of his position. Gloria laughed softly. "Your brother has mentioned you a few times, not in the best context I must admit."

"So the undercover work?"

"Scotland Yard has been trying to take down the Trevor ring for awhile now. Mr. Trevor though is an exceptionally crafty individual, terrifying and manipulating, and he's been able to stay well out of Scotland Yard's grasp for awhile now. A little while back we got an anonymous tip that he had a son named Victor who was on scholarship at Oxford. The DI decided that this was their best in, and that an undercover cop working with Victor Trevor, who did have a proclivity towards crime and his father's scene, would be the best way to finally infiltrate. I was the youngest and, frankly, most apt for blending into a university drug scene, so they offered me the gig."

"Because you're a drug user." It wasn't a question, it was an observation.

Gloria nodded, scratching the inside of her arm.

"That's quite a dangerous job for someone who read Neurological Psychology and has no sort of covert operations training."

Gloria shrugged. "I did a lot of acting back in secondary school? I know people's brains, I know how they work both chemically and on a behavioral basis. Especially criminals, it's my forte. Something you claim to know as well. It's probably easier for me to blend in than it is for any one of the detectives with formal training at NSY."

Mycroft nodded, glancing back down at the file he held before him. "I'm sure you're aware of the risks, I won't berate you with what you already know. In fact, I brought you here to do some more covert operations."

"You want me to spy on Sherlock."

Mycroft paused. "His security, strange as it may seem, is in fact pivotal for our government, Miss Scott, for reasons I won't explain."

The mischievous smile returned. Mycroft was chillingly reminded of some of the images of Victor Trevor he had seen from his feeds. "Because if you worry about your brother you don't work as well."

Mycroft did not deem this worthy of reply.

"Name your price, Miss Scott, all I'll need is some updates on his mental state, whereabouts, err… habits. Nothing too personal, mind you."

Gloria kicked back in her seat, tapping her foot on the ground. She lurched forward, clamping her hands tightly on her knees. "I don't want money, Mr. Holmes. I want protection. You're right, I'm running a dangerous operation with the Trevor ring with very little training and background. All I've had to do up until now was befriend Victor, which really wasn't all that hard, he's a nice kid and I like him. I like your brother too. But now I'm into the ring, and I'm scared, because if I get found out, I'm dead. I want protection from that."

Mycroft crossed his hands. "I think I could provide that. A trained tail to keep you out of harm and call back ups when needed."

Gloria smiled. "That's what I'm talking about." She stood to go, walking towards the door. "Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Holmes."

* * *

Sherlock smoked a cigarette in his bed, the smoke lilting and twirling above his head, getting caught in his black curls, prodding at the thick layer of duct tape he had used to cover up the smoke detector in his room. As he sucked off the last bit of nicotine he tossed the butt aside, hearing it land in the glass beaker he had placed in the middle of his floor which was already full of a dozen other cigarettes. Chain smoking was the only way he could keep away the gnawing headache that was scratching a hole into his brain. His body still felt heavy from the after effects of the heroin, and he hadn't done any coke since yesterday.

Sherlock had to stop.

He was losing all control, a spinning top that kept gaining acceleration, moving faster and faster until it collides fully with a wall. That was not to be tolerated. The only thing Sherlock had autonomy over was his mind, it was his fortress, his one sanctuary. And he had lost that among cocaine bliss and heroin slumber, had lost it with each prick of his arm, with each line he snorted, with each joint he smoked and bar he went too.

All these paths led back to Victor Trevor.

Victor Trevor who had become unescapably entangled into Sherlock's addictive habits.

Victor Trevor who was an addiction himself.

Because Sherlock knew that he couldn't last long chasing after Victor's coattails and wasting away in the underground belly of society that was flush with drug dealers and kingpins, violence and drugs. He couldn't keep going like this.

The only problem was, Sherlock didn't see another way to go.

Sherlock rolled onto his side, his body melting into the mattress, releasing some of the tension he was keeping within his taut and thin body. He closed his eyes as a wave of nausea and pain ran through him. He knew cocaine would get rid of this. He knew heroin would get rid of this. But at the moment he wanted neither, not with the memory of last night still rattling through his veins, even though there was a strong tug in his gut telling him to prepare a syringe this instant.

Sherlock Holmes was a genius, but at the moment he felt incredibly stupid for having allowed himself to get into this situation.

The silence of the room pressed in on him, the absence of another body made him feel claustrophobic. He hadn't been honestly and truly alone in weeks; he was always either flying at Victor's coattails or in the library doing massive amounts of work. Sherlock hadn't been alone with his thoughts in awhile, as his thoughts were either consumed with his addictions, methods of getting his addictions, or how to hide his addictions.

For someone who had been truly alone (and often lonely) for most of his life, it was strange for what had once been familiar to feel so dissonant. The lack of loneliness would be welcome if it didn't also come with these depressive collapses.

Sherlock felt his eyelids getting heavier. They had been drooping all day, even after he had taken a nap. He supposed with the cocaine mostly out of his system his body was trying to compensate for all the loss of sleep it had accumulated. Usually he would be fervently against sleep, a useless pastime when there were so many other things to do, but right now it seemed nice, good, to let go of withdrawal symptoms and the cacophony that were his thoughts at the moment. It would be nice to forget about Victor Trevor, heroin, and cocaine for a couple hours. As long as he didn't sleep longer than ten hours he would be fine, he had a cell culture growing and he had to change their growth medium at 6:00.

Sherlock curled in on himself and closed his eyes, letting himself sleep.


	7. The Eldest Holmes

Sherlock sat, head in his hands, curled into the smallest ball possible, as he rocked back and forth. The energy welling up inside him was caustic and volatile as he lay in his bed contemplating his options. Right now the only two things on his mind were A) punching a wall and B) getting more cocaine. Or heroin for that matter. _Anything _to take away the feeling of gravity as it pressed down on his body, of the pile driver targeted towards his brain, and the cyclic thought of _need more need more need more_ racing through his head.

He had gone two days without drugs, two days with nothing but cigarettes and his ritualistic self-deprecation and cravings. It was a small feat, and he wasn't sure he could keep it up. Sure, cocaine was bad, but it wasn't nearly as bad as _this_. Addiction was fine as long as he could stave off withdrawal. Sherlock had stopped because he wanted to feel in control, he had been ashamed of his night in the drug den, of the feeling of waking up sweaty lying in his own vomit, the embarrassment of having lost all his senses. Yet, he felt very much out of control now. He felt like running around screaming and throwing everything in his room, running down the street until he couldn't run anymore, collapsing and lying in a pile on the cold ground for the rest of eternity. If that was in control, he wanted none of it. He wanted cocaine.

Sherlock had decided to get himself another hit hours ago, the only thing keeping him from giving in was the fact that he had no cash left. With Sebastian no longer paying him for coursework, Sherlock had no cash influx leaving him with three options: ask Mycroft for cash, ask Victor for drugs, or give in to Sebastian's requests.

The anxiety blooming inside him was cracking a fracture that ran from his bottom hip to the center of his chest, pushing outwards, caustic and festering.

He couldn't see Victor… not after Friday night. Sherlock hadn't even heard from him in the past few days. The _emotions _(ugh) roiling inside him at the thought upset his already sore stomach, and he felt another wave of nausea claw at his throat. He absent-mindedly scratched at the inside of his wrest repetitively, _up down up down_, it kept him calm, something to rely on. Sherlock thought of honey hair and heroin tendrils, of Victor murmuring, "have some more love" and the warmth that had spread through his body. He thought of the cold light of morning, of the smell of his own rancid vomit covering him, of the _drip drip _of the rain and the pressure of knowing _what he'd done_ on his chest. Water pricked at the edge of his eyes and he swiped at them angrily. No… he couldn't see Victor.

Mycroft was also out of the question. He was too vulnerable to see his older brother, too shattered to piece himself together enough to ask Mycroft for help or even hide that he needed it. Sherlock swallowed.

That left one thing.

Sherlock slowly released himself and extricated himself from his private cocoon. He donned his peacoat and sweater, tying it softly around his neck. He checked his face in the mirror, feeling it turn rigid and passive, masking what lay underneath.

Sebastian opened the door after the second knock.

"I need money."

Sebastian smiled and opened the door wider. Sherlock walked into the room.

As Sherlock got to his knees and took Sebastian into his mouth, he had the absurd thought that contacting Mycroft would have been better than this. But it was only fleeting as Sebastian gripped his hair tightly, pulling him back and forth roughly as Sherlock tried not to gag, tears pricking at his eyes as Sebastian went farther in than was comfortable, the floor digging into his knees sharply. Sebastian aggressively lurched back and forth, thrusting into Sherlock's mouth, a single tear fell unwillingly as Sebastian hit the back of Sherlock's throat causing a physiological reaction. Sherlock gagged slightly, coughing and trying to escape Sebastian's grasp so he could _breathe _and _think_, but Sebastian just grabbed his curls tighter and thrust harder, as Sherlock felt vomit rising in his throat and his legs giving out underneath him. And finally Sebastian started making small moans and let go of Sherlock's hair marginally, and this was it if he wanted to get out as soon as possible this was it, and he worked Sebastian throughout his mouth, tongue running over his head, teeth scraping slightly on the shaft, _at least he could breathe,_ and finally, after Sherlock's legs were numb and his mouth was dry and swollen, it was over.

Sherlock stood up and tried not to look at Sebastian as he passed him a hundred quid. _Rich bastard_. He went straight to Mariah down the hall, worse cut than the London dealers but much closer and he needed a hit as he tried to keep from vomiting Sebastian's cum. Which he was tempted to do just out of principle.

As he lay later in bed, trying to mask the taste of salt that ran down his raw throat with a cigarette, and lightly touching the bruises just forming on the back of his neck as he prepared a syringe full of a ten percent solution he couldn't help thinking of when he had been younger and his mother, home for once from business abroad, had held him in her arms, kissed his temple, and told him that her special boy would do great things for the world. Sherlock's skin crawled as he poked around for a vein, the weight of his body feeling distant from himself, transport for his detached mind. He thought of what his mother would say if she saw him now, ruffled and ruined after having sucked off a closet queer for enough money for two grams because his pride wouldn't allow him to just ask for money from his brother.

Sherlock injected himself, allowing his white mistress to hold him and kiss his temple. He collapsed onto the bed, everything slowing down around him, and at that moment it almost felt worth it.

* * *

Being the oldest brother had never been a particularly easy task, especially when he was the oldest of the Holmes' boys. Mycroft couldn't pinpoint the exact moment that he had realized the weight that lay upon his shoulders, but it was likely around the time he realized that when Father went on vacations he could be gone for months, and that when Mother left for work he wouldn't see her again for a couple days. There were maids, of course, and tutors and all sorts of hired staff to help oversee that Mycroft, Gideon, and Sherlock stayed out of trouble, but the problem was that they were shit at their task, and Sherlock and Gideon and that bloody dog Redbeard would get into more mischief than could be thought possible. So the task fell to him, because he was the oldest and because he understood the terribly bright minds of his younger brothers better than any hired psychologist or highly recommended tutor could. He knew that when Sherlock came to dinner with washed hands and fresh pressed clothes, it was because he had been dissecting a frog earlier requiring he clean up. He knew that when Gideon went missing for days on end it was because he had got ahold of some spare computer parts and was hyperfocusing on building the pieces back together. It didn't take a genius, and Mycroft was one.

Gideon and Sherlock couldn't have been more different.

Sherlock was energy personified, brought to life so intensely that even when he lay perfectly still for hours during one of his "I'm thinking" periods, you could still sense the maelstrom that raged underneath. He whirled from place to place, from thought to thought, only stopping when he crashed and only crashing when he was at limits far greater than any other person could reach. Sherlock was a child with a man's mind, immature in every way except his own brand of logic.

Gideon was energy internalized. His life force was his computer, in the soft whirring of internal fans and the glow of LED screens as 0's and 1's illuminated his spectacled face. Like Sherlock, he had always had a knack for getting himself into trouble, but where Sherlock was more physical in his mischief, raising beehives for fun and dissecting the gardener's dead cat, Gideon's trouble was far more discreet. By the age of 8 he had built his own computer, and by the age of 10 had hacked into Mycroft's secondary school system from home to change Mycroft's Politics grade to failing. When Gideon was 13 he had infiltrated the traffic systems in town to constantly make the traffic signals red whenever Mycroft was on the road, synced up with the traffic cameras that read the license plate.

Mycroft was thankful that Mother and Father hadn't noticed.

Of course, they never did seem to notice anything about their children, focusing instead on long trips away and heated fights about infidelity upon their returns. The Holmes' manor was huge, but even so Violet and Alvin's arguing permeated throughout the house, making Alvin's affair and Violet's alcoholism well known to everyone residing inside, children and hired help.

It didn't bother Mycroft that his parents weren't perfect individuals. In contrast, he found their emotions fascinating. How was it that two people who were so intelligent be so capable of base human reactions?

But then, he was guilty of that as well wasn't he? Mycroft _cared_ about his brothers. And caring was never an advantage.

xxxxxxx

The trouble had really started when Mycroft had left the Holmes manor, when he had graduated a year early and left for Cambridge, hoping to climb the political ranks. Mycroft hadn't exactly known then _what _or _who _he would become, but he knew that he understood people, at least in the way that a scientist understands their specimens. Mycroft knew how their brains worked, and in that way he understood how to manipulate and extort, makingpeople bend to his will without leaving a trace of his inception. Secondary school had just been a playground for his manipulations; it was time to test his prowess in the real world.

Of course, when he left, saying goodbye to Mother who even managed to squeeze a tear out and a firm followed up with a distant handshake from father, Gideon and Sherlock were nowhere to be found.

"Probably busy doing schoolwork," Mother had said, waving away her younger sons behavior as her white teeth clinked a champagne glass. "Don't worry about them."

Mycroft was far past the option of 'not worrying about them' at this point.

When he had climbed into the car, the chauffeur closing the door behind him, he had found a note on his seat.

_Take care Mycroft. And may I suggest that you lay off the doughnuts. Fat politicians are statistically less likely to succeed._

_~SH_

When he finally settles into Cambridge and opens up his laptop, a text file is open on his computer.

_Good luck My. Don't worry about Sherlock. ~Gideon_

Mycroft snorts, not even bothering to question how Gideon had hacked his computer. He leans back in his chair, laughing quietly even though something inside him feels like it's breaking.

xxxxxxx

Three months later and Mycroft wonders how his parents ever thought it safe to perpetuate their genes to not only one, or two, but three bloody children. He doesn't think the world can handle three Holmes'.

"Gideon, what the bloody hell did you do?"

He can hear the smirk in the fifteen year olds voice across the line, can practically see his computer illuminated face and his large black glasses. "Hello to you too, Mycroft?"

"I'm not even going to ask you how you penetrated _the highest security banking system in England_, but I really do need my tuition paid for the semester and I can't do that when you've remotely transferred it into your personal account."

Gideon snickered, his level, tech-voice coming through. "High security my ass. Fuckers relied on some in-testing port thinking that meant that no one could infiltrate because no known exploits. Would've taken me an hour more if they'd just used regular HTTP. Amateurs. I'd find another 'high security banking system'"

Mycroft clenched his fists. "Gideon, transfer the money back."

"How would you feel if I told you that you've just funded a startup for a small Swedish tech company?"

Mycroft hung up, slamming the phone down.

A week later his tuition was anonymously settled and Mycroft was certain that one if not both of his brothers would end up in jail before they could go to university.

xxxxxxx

Mycroft graduated university around the same time Gideon entered, leaving Cambridge a year earlier than he had anticipated and already scooped up by SIS to be a fledgling analyst. They had approached Mycroft as he was attempting to go to a Conflict Resolution lecture, rolling up in an expensive black Rolls Royce, a chauffeur opening the door and giving him no choice but to get inside.

As Mycroft attempted to sit neatly in the small seat, feeling altogether self-conscious about his growing girth, he stared across at the man across from him. Already had deduced that this wasn't a kidnapping; government clearance tag in the right corner of the window, obscured police lights underneath the windshield, so he wasn't scared. Rather, he was unsure.

"Mycroft Holmes." The man across from him was large and muscular, wearing an expensive Armani suit, gun concealed underneath…no… two guns. Ring on his left middle finger, but no other jewelry. Single, despite being at an age to marry. Cropped hair, army background, or Navy? Government agent. It had to be.

"What am I doing in a government vehicle?" For a second, Mycroft thought of his brothers. Good God, he hoped that Gideon hadn't caused some sort of meltdown on Wall Street or Sherlock hadn't snuck into a government facility to chase a puzzle. Both were likely.

The man didn't seem phased by his apt deduction. "We have some questions to ask you."

Mycroft nodded, folding his hands across his lap and looking out the window for the remainder of the ride. They eventually pulled up to a warehouse, bleak and dark from the outside. He made a point not to fidget despite his nerves. The agent ushered him out and inside, the walls dripping with moisture, abandoned and rusting machinery lay all along the main floor, naked cables hanging from the ceiling. Mycroft was led to the back of the room, where a table and chairs sat.

_This is all rather dramatic, _Mycroft thought. _Trying to impress me with their urban decay landscape?_

He remained still and stoic, despite the natural Holmes response to _need to know _coursing within him.

The agent sat down at the table and gestured for Mycroft to sit across from him. He pulled some files out of the leather bag he had been carrying and handed them to Mycroft.

"I would like you to read these."

Interesting. Mycroft quickly scanned through the files. There were a few interviews with various MI6 agents all surrounding the location of a mysterious disc with secret files on it, information about each location and known terror organizations in that area, interviews with captured terrorists…he was finished in about five minutes.

Mycroft placed the file back down and looked back at the agent who cocked an eyebrow. Mycroft resisted the urge to do the same back to him, instead opting to wait for instructions.

"What do you think?" the agent asked.

"The disc is in Cuba at the moment."

"How do you know?"

"Cuba's attacks have been too informed to be random, and their "distraction" attacks have been a poor diversion to try to hide the fact that they have this information."

The agent nodded. "How'd you know?"

"Mostly subliminal hints given by the wording of the Cuban prisoners, which were indicative even taking into account the cultural linguistic differences. Any other idiot would have probably considered the Russian's to be in control, something about the callousness of their operatives really unnerves people, and we've been quick to jump on them since the Cold War, they don't understand South American culture really, the sly way that their operatives operate, that they can lie with a smile. Have to look for subliminal tells, for the things they can't cover up. It might interest you to know the Cuban terrorist organization has been in control of some of US secret information for years."

The agent nodded, standing up and ushering Mycroft back towards the door. They got back into the car and Mycroft was dropped off in front of his lecture hall for his next class. How they knew his schedule was lost on Mycroft.

"We'll be in contact Mr. Holmes," the agent intoned from inside the vehicle.

Two days later Mycroft Holmes was employed by the crown to protect Queen and country with his deduction and analysis.

Around the same time Mother began living in France and Father started bringing more women home. Sherlock was left alone as Gideon began his stint in Cambridge, alone with a distant father in a large house, lost in a sea of _being different _with none of his also _different _brothers around to understand.

It was around that time he began experimenting with drugs.

xxxxxxx

Three years later and Gideon hacked into the NSA one night while at Cambridge. He didn't do anything malicious, he didn't even leave a trace, just did it for the fun of it. When Mycroft was informed the next day that NSA in the States had been hacked with no known reason, Mycroft instantly thought of his brother. As more information was obtained, such as the fact that the assailants location was being reconfigured with a polymorphic engine, which updates the signal broadcast from different proxies around the world, and the fact that all these places were travel spots the Holmes' had visited in the past few years, Mycroft knew Gideon's was involved.

He picked Gideon up two days later in his government black Royce with tinted windows, which came with his recent promotion to assistant to the senior analyst. Gideon didn't look surprised to see him, as he adjusted his glasses and cardigan, stomped out his cigarette, and got into the car.

"Smoking is an unattractive addiction."

"You smoke too, Myc."

Gideon had him there.

"I know why you're here," Gideon continued, meeting Mycroft's gaze unabashedly. "And the answer is yes, I hacked the NSA."

Mycroft wasn't nearly as surprised as he should have been.

"If you had been caught you would have been tagged as a terrorist, they wouldn't even consider that you're a bored overactive student with a knack for infiltrating high security cybersystems," Mycroft continued. "You could've put my job in jeopardy."

"Cyberterrorism is a hell of a lot more interesting than Discrete Mathematics lecture."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You're lucky my car isn't bugged, Gideon, or that would've been recorded."

"If it was, I could just hack into MI5 and delete the files later." Gideon's smirk was minute but seemed to take up his whole face nonetheless.

Mycroft regarded him coldly, remaining perfectly still, hands folded neatly in his lap.

"You're leaving school soon."

"Yes, I am."

"Any plans for a career?"

"Anything that isn't boring. And most things are boring, Mycroft."

"What about academia?"

"Writing papers and lecturing about computer science? No thanks. I need the practical applications of my work."

"You'd settle for nothing less than being a hacker as your career I presume?"

Gideon paused slightly before nodding. Nothing else was interesting enough to keep him sane. Nothing else was worth it, even with the huge odds against him. It was what made the game so fun anyways.

Mycroft nodded once, moving slightly to turn out the window. "How's your technical engineering skills?"

Gideon shrugged. "I built a pen that can explode the other day?"

Mycroft watched him incredulously. "What possible application could that have for you at university?"

"Good way to cancel classes for the day."

"Gideon Holmes, you're a bloody terrorist."

"I'd only be a terrorist if I had a target, Mycroft, don't be so overdramatic. I can't be a terrorist if I target everyone indiscriminately."

"Good God, I have to keep a close eye on you."

"You're last round of bugs are flushed out, by the way, so good luck keeping that going."

Mycroft frowned slightly, giving Gideon the same low stare he had given him earlier, sizing him up, and gestured him out of the car.

"I'm going to see if I can't get this terrorist employed in a safe environment, safe for you and for the rest of the Queen's country. Don't do anything astronomically severe in the next few days, please, if you can manage," Mycroft quipped sarcastically.

Gideon left the car, lighting a cigarette as he did so. He turned back to Mycroft before he closed the door. "Heard anything from Sherlock recently?"

Mycroft shrugged, not bothering to mention that between conflicts in Russia and North Korea he hadn't been keeping up with Sherlock as he should be. Hadn't even thought of contacting Gideon if he hadn't fucking hacked the NSA.

"You should call him sometime Mycroft, he sounds sad whenever I ring him."

xxxxxxx

A few days later and Mycroft and Gideon sat across from each other in the same car as they had two days previously. Gideon had his arms folded across his chest and Mycroft leaned back casually, yet professionally, in his chair.

"You have been offered a position within MI6, Gideon."

Gideon's eyes narrowed slightly. "How did that come about, I wonder?"

"I simply told our security branch that I had found and interrogated the hacker who recently infiltrated the NSA, and explained the… recreational aspect of your hacking. They have a spot open, they need a brain to practice hacking into their system to find any weak spots, and then fix those weak spots."

Gideon's eyes remained narrowed even though he seemed to soften a bit. "Why do you think I would enjoy working for the government?"

"Because it's the only place where you can be well paid and not imprisoned for hacking into high security government servers."

Gideon smiled slightly, resting his hands into his lap. Mycroft took that as a confirmation.

"There's only one thing, Gideon, that has to be done before you work for MI6."

Gideon frowned. "What's that?"

"You have to lose your identity."

"What exactly does that entail?"

"You have to fake your death. You have to die."

"Why didn't you have to?"

"I'm an analyst not an intelligence operative. We're the known targets, and we stay that way so the unidentified in the shadows can gather the information we analyze."

"Will Sherlock know I'm alive?"

"No one can know you're alive."

Gideon nodded, leaning back on his chair. "After Christmas, then Mycroft. Give me time to graduate and see Sherlock. Then I'll begin my career in espionage."

Mycroft nodded affirmation. Sherlock would be fine. He was a Holmes, he would take it in the same pragmatic way that Gideon was accepting his own death. Chances were he would join MI6 at some point anyways, the only place to put to good use his unbridled energy and analytic mind. A few years in the dark and then a nice surprise to find Gideon still alive. It would be fine.

xxxxxxx

"You killed him Mycroft."

Sherlock stood in front of him, hands clasped into fists at his sides, his eyes narrowed into a ghastly expression. Mycroft wasn't frequently scared of his brothers, but at this moment he was aware of just how volatile and just how terrifying his brother could be.

Gideon had "died" four days ago. Mycroft's people had organized an explosion in his new apartment, causing a disfigured body that resembled Gideon enough to throw anyone except Sherlock off. Now his middle brother was comfortable in his new flat, having bought a new cat, and was busy hacking his way into his first official assignment.

Mycroft had been worried that Sherlock would poke around trying to find evidence for his brother's death, which would have been disastrous, but his brother seemed too caught up in grief to do anything except lock himself in his room, only stalking out in the middle of the night to grab some toast and some pills from Mother's medicine cabinet. Mycroft had told him to stop taking un-prescribed Vicodin, but Sherlock had just laughed in his face and walked back to his room, popping four on the way up the stairs.

Sherlock was different from when Mycroft had seen him last two Christmas' ago. He was still energy defined, yes, but instead of the manic and brilliant energy, brimming with curiosity and naïve interest, there was instead a dark hint. Sherlock's mania had taken a turn to self-destruction, as he lit cigarette after cigarette and kept mysterious pill bottles in his room with the labels torn off. He was thinner, somehow, and not only physically.

Mycroft had been trying to talk to him since he came to the Holmes' manor three days ago for his brother's wake and funeral. And now here Sherlock was at his bedroom door at two in the morning, eyes tinted red and swaying slightly on his feet, giving Mycroft the impression that he had just downed more Vicodin. That would be dealt with later.

"You killed Gideon," Sherlock repeated, moving into Mycroft's room. His back arched menacingly. "I saw him at Christmas. He told me you got him a job with MI6. He said he was looking forward to it. You got him the job, Mycroft, and then he dies two weeks later in an untraceable explosion."

"It was probably just a gas leak."

Sherlock laughs roughly, no mirth inside it. "The best hacker in England joins MI6 and is blown to bits, and you think it's a fucking gas leak. You're a shit political analyst, how the fuck did you even get the job?"

"Sherlock, could you not speak so crudely?"

"Why, do they not say 'fuck' in the Diogenes Club?"

"Well, they don't say anything in the Diogenes Club."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to stare out the window. "Why didn't you protect him? You're second hand to the goddamn government at the moment, Mycroft, why couldn't you protect him?"

Mycroft shrugged impassively. Sherlock looked at him sharply, eyes narrowed, his eyes glimmering with held back tears. "How can you do that? How can you just…not care?"

And it was so hard for Mycroft in that moment to not break, to not tell Sherlock everything, because he could see the tortured look in the teenagers eyes, had seen him stand on the roof with blood dripping from his hands after what was left of the body had been brought to the manor, he knew that Sherlock had lost his best friend, probably the only person who could understand and empathize with him because Mycroft was too old and too protective to do anything except chastise. Instead, he took a sharp breath through his nose and placed the iciest look he could muster on his face.

"Because, Sherlock, caring is not an advantage."

Sherlock paused, his face slightly shocked, his eyes wide, a tear managing to slip out from under his eyelid which he swiped at angrily. Then he scoffed, his expression turning dark and stormy.

"You're a complete and utter asshole, Mycroft Holmes," he said before turning heel and leaving the room.

The next time Mycroft saw Sherlock was when he showed up at his place in London unannounced and asked for money.

* * *

Smoke curled out of Mycroft's mouth as he exhaled his cigarette. He tried not to let anyone know about this little habit, and he only smoked occasionally when coffee wasn't holding him together, but it was deeply ingrained Holmes' habit he supposed. The canopy of the café he was standing outside of dripped with rain. He inhaled again.

He had just received a phone call from Gloria.

"Sherlock's done heroin. Victor just came in junk sick from a few days binge. Said Sherlock had been with him for a bit." Gloria paused, before going on. "Victor's in a bad way. His father visited him and threatened him. You may want to check on Sherlock."

Which left Mycroft at a bit of an impasse. Does he sacrifice all and visit Sherlock, like his gut was telling him to do? Or does he do what is most pragmatic and not sacrifice the opportunity to bust the Trevor ring?

Obviously, he should do the latter. Sherlock moving on to more addictive substances wasn't particularly surprising, he'd been bouncing around from substance to substance since grade school. Of course he would always laud cocaine above all, but with his new association with Victor Trevor who did have a history with opiates, Sherlock's trying of heroin wasn't really all that drastic. And if Mycroft moved in now and tried to step in, put Sherlock in rehab like he really should, he would jeopardize his association with Gloria and the biggest chance of breaking the Trevor ring that they'd had in years. Nobody's druggie little brother was worth that.

But Sherlock was Mycroft's druggie little brother, and as much of a pain as he was, Mycroft was still morbidly protective of him. To a fault. More so after Gideon's "death". Given this, despite the logistics pointing him in the direction he _should _take as a political analyst for Queen and country, his zone of influence right now encompassing all of London and expanding rapidly outwards, all he wanted to do was bust into Sherlock's room and put him in a car pointed in the direction of a rehabilitation center. Which was all a bit dramatic, to be honest, but that was what they did.

Mycroft stomped out the cigarette and tapped his black umbrella against his toes. He had to balance logic and sentimentality here. Find out more information as to how long this little game with Gloria Scott and Victor's father would go on. Make an assessment of whether or not this was an appropriate amount of time to leave Sherlock to his destructive devices.

Mycroft took out his cell phone and rang his assistant. "Marie, could you please put me through to Gloria Scott. Private call, of course. Block all trace backs." If Sherlock got ahold of Gloria's phone he didn't want his association with her to become clear.

The phone in his ear buzzed a few times before Gloria's voice appeared on the other end.

"Hello?"

"Gloria, it's Mycroft Holmes, how are you doing?"

He heard a pause at the other end and a noise as though the girl was shuffling things around. "I'm doing fine, thanks. What do you need? I thought I would always be the one to call you."

"Well, I needed a bit more information from you. I was just wondering if you could possibly tell me any information you have about the Trevor ring from your undercover work."

Another pause. "Well, Victor was telling me about how his father is in quite a state. Apparently this guy from his past has been in contact with him, someone he never wanted to see again. This man contacted him and he storms over to Victor's place demanding to know how and why Victor led this guy to him. That's all I know really. Victor was pretty much babbling when he told me."

Mycroft frowned. Jay Trevor was a terribly powerful man with a lot of enemies. It was conceivable that any number of people could have contacted him. But, why then would he be so nervous of this particular person. If death threats were a common occurrence for him, what set this one apart?

"Can you tell me this mystery person's name?"

"Yeah, Vic said his name was Armitage."

Mycroft felt his stomach drop a bit, almost as quickly as it had when he'd heard that Sherlock was in hospital. He tapped his toe with his umbrella more rapidly. This situation was worse than he'd thought.

"Thank you, Ms. Scott. Keep in contact." He hung up, pocketing the phone.

Mycroft reached for another cigarette in his pocket, sticking it in his mouth.

All signs pointed to the fact that the Trevor ring would be in turmoil very soon, that there were loose strings fraying all along its edges and that if he plucked one of them, the whole array would unravel before him.

Despite how good that sounded, he now realized that Sherlock was in a much more dangerous position than Mycroft had anticipated.

Mycroft sighed. It was really quite hard being the eldest Holmes brother.

**A/N- Sorry guys, if it wasn't for lovely guest Erin I would've completely forgotten I was posting on FF. For a few months the doc uploader wasn't working and I couldn't get my chapters up, so I sort of fell out of the habit of posting here. I update regularly on Archive of our Own, so it may be the better option for following me! Chapter 8 is in the works, but I'm super busy lately jetting around the country interviewing for PhD. **

**Also I made a playlist for this fanfiction on 8tracks. Go to my username restlesswanderings to find it.**


	8. Dressing Coffins

Sherlock had told Victor once that the vibrations produced from stars could give insight into the composition of their cores, that stars vibrate like a musical instrument, sound becoming trapped within their outer core and sending out oscillating waves of vibration. If the star had a hydrogen core, the vibrations would move through it slower than through helium, like the difference between a cello and violin. Every star had a song, Sherlock had said, and it was up to us to infer the star's characteristics through this universal symphony.

Victor had always wondered what his vibration frequency was and what that showed the world about his core. Was it dense like helium, light like hydrogen, was it toxic or noxious or necessary for life? The concept that he was emitting a song from himself had always intrigued him, was poetic and beautiful and just fitting for his romantic tendencies. He had always fancied that the song emanating from him was _Four Seasons_ or some other masterpiece that described the constant ebb and flow of his life.

Except now, as he lay on the floor of Gloria's apartment, racked with shudders, a coldness seeping under his skin, pooling in his arteries, coddling his interstitial tissue, his lead stomach attached to a fishing line lodged in his throat, he was certain that he did not want to know what his song was, what it told others, what it told him about himself. Because after spending the better part of four days on a heroin binge, only stumbling to Gloria's after his fingers had begun to turn white and his lips blue from his stint in Eltham Park, he was certain that his vibrations would tell tales of the density of his addictions, his toxicity, how he could convince others to light themselves on fire because all Victor Trevor wanted to do was burn _burn __**burn**_**. **

Now he was more convinced he was Philip Glass symphony, beautiful and elegant on the surface and absolutely magnificent to behold, yet always the sense of a foreboding future and temptation lurking in the bass tones and deep resonance beneath.

Victor's mother had always told him that he held himself in a lofty light. He supposed he was proving her right.

Still the idea of starlight and star song reflecting some primal part of your being permeated his daydreams.

He rested his head against the pillow. Most of his time had been spent in the south London kip, leaving eventually when Ross had kicked him lightly in the shins and told him that he could stay as long as he wanted, but his pulse was rapidly decreasing and he suggested a trip to hospital. Victor had scoffed and stalked out with the rest of his stash, holing up in the snow banks of Eltham Park, keeping warm with his last couple of needles and the spoon and lighter he had snagged from the floor of Ross' place.

The thing with heroin was that it was brilliant while you were using, and while you were high you felt like you had everything in control. It was only when you were sober that you begin to regret your actions.

And Victor did regret it. Not all of it, because he was also aware of how much he had _hungered _for it and how he was not inclined to resist something when he wanted it so badly. He did regret, however, bringing Sherlock, whose face when the needle had entered his skin had been something akin to the look of a driver barreling into a telephone pole. Sherlock who had started using cocaine because he needed _control _and Victor had snatched all control away from him just so Victor could dance with him through the world burning bright around them.

Victor lay back on the bed and closed his eyes as another pang of nausea hit him. He hadn't seen Sherlock since they were in the London house, and as much as he wanted to see him because he needed a companion, always needed someone with him, he was also dreading seeing Sherlock as well.

The door to the apartment opened and Gloria walked in, carrying a few bags of groceries in her arms. She looked over to Victor on the floor, her face guarded and careful as she placed her bags on the table.

"You feeling better?" she asked.

Victor pulled himself upwards off the floor, grimacing as gravity threatened to topple him back down. "Never been better," he replied, suppressing a shudder.

Gloria watched him carefully before nodding and pulling out some food from her bag. "You should probably eat something, you know."

Victor shrugged. "I'm fine, just needed some sleep."

Gloria nodded, tucking her brown hair behind her ears as she began pulling fruit out of her brown paper bag. Victor watched her. "You were out awhile, Glor, what's up?"

"I was just making some calls," Gloria shrugged. "I didn't want to disturb you."

Victor nodded, focusing his efforts on shifting his weight to his legs and pulling himself dizzily upwards. The initial rush of blood to his head threatened to topple him over once more, but he braced himself against the wall to steady himself. Gloria watched him blandly as he stumbled over to where she was in the kitchen section of her studio. As he approached she pushed a take away coffee his way. As he picked it up gingerly, she watched him evenly, her mouth turned slightly down.

"What?" he asked in response, hiding his discomfort with a sip of coffee.

Gloria sighed, shrugging slightly. "I was just wondering why you spent the better part of four days in godknowswhere London burning through a hundred quid's worth of heroin."

Victor shrugged. "You know me, Glor, I just wanted to."

She turned back to take some groceries out of the bag. "I am struggling to see how this is just a recreational binge."

"Well it was."

She smiled slightly, unhumorously, looking up from her shopping to stare at the cupboard in front of her, her mouth torqued up. "You do know Victor that told me last night your father visited you before?"

_Oh._ Victor's feverish memories of the first few hours in Gloria's apartment were spotty at best as he struggled against the heroin laced tide of his bloodstream and the fact that he had gone four days with minimal sleep. Given the circumstances, he may have divulged more than he had intended. It wasn't that he particularly cared about Gloria knowing about his brief yet tense meeting with his father, it was just he really did not want to deal with the effects of her knowing, nor the prying and questions and pity. No, Victor really did not need that.

"He was asking about business," he retorted, hoping he hadn't gotten very far into his recount of his meeting with Jay Trevor.

Gloria snorted as she moved to the kettle in the corner, filling it with water and placing it on the stove. "You said he threatened your life."

Victor shrugged. "That's a normal part of any of our interactions, Glor," Victor responded, doing his best to brush it off.

"You mentioned someone named Armitage."

Victor sighed, swiping a hand across his face. "Yeah, that name was mentioned."

Gloria placed a hand on her hip, turning away from the stove. "You know Victor, I'm not asking because I'm particularly worried about you. You can handle your own, or at least you won't accept help from anyone. What I'm worried about is the fact that you got Sherlock involved just by his presence there." She paused. "In fact, you got Sherlock involved in a lot of things you probably shouldn't have."

Victor stared at her, trying to figure out if the emotions roiling inside his sternum were shades of shame or the hues of anger. "He wanted to, Gloria, I didn't force him to do anything."

Gloria watched him closely, her brown eyes inquiring and cautious. "No," she finally began slowly her gaze moving towards the white steam billowing from the silent kettle, "you might not have forced the needle into his vein. But there's more than one way to make someone do something against their will."

Victor's eyes narrowed as he watched her grab some PG Tips from one of her barren cupboards, placing it into an empty mug. "What are you saying?"

"You and I both know that Sherlock doesn't belong in the world that we live in. He's too brilliant, too eccentric and _important _to live this scramble of a life. You have to know that."

The kettle began screeching behind her, white steam wafting through the room.

Victor swallowed, keeping his face cross. "I don't see your point."

The shrieking of the kettle increased, though Gloria resolutely ignored it, instead staring straight through Victor. "Through no other action than just being… _you_…you've convinced Sherlock that he can only find stability in the least stable of places. So, of course he followed you to that seedy ass den. When he thinks you are the only thing grounding him, he'll do anything you say."

The shrieking increased as there was a terse moment between the two, their eyes locked. After a moment, Gloria turned to shut the stove off, pouring the piping water into her mug. "Tea?" she asked spinning around.

Victor shook his head, his eyes shifting in their gaze. "No, thanks," he murmured. "You know, you can tell that you've done some psych work Glor, and you sure know how to make something heavy."

Gloria let out a small, unhumourous laugh, blowing on her tea. "Nasty habit of mine."

Victor shoved his hands into his pockets. "I think I'm good to go, now. Get back into the routine of things." His voice was small and he hated that.

Gloria nodded, moving to open the door for him. "Do call if you need anything."

Victor floated towards the door, nodding his reply.

He had nothing to respond to Gloria with, no retort or caustic remark. Victor had known for awhile that he and Sherlock were more bad together than good, more toxic to each other than the drugs they each consumed. Victor was nothing if not good at convincing others to set themselves on fire just because he liked the warmth. It had just never gone on so long, and as much as he knew, he _knew _that he should just leave, break off fast and hard like all the others, let Sherlock repair what was left in his wake, he found that this action which had seemed so second nature to him for so long, as easy as breathing, now caused him a whirlwind of emotions.

Victor had always been the beauty and the murder of everyone he had met.

Now it seemed he had transitioned to being the heavy metal brimmed collapsing star engulfing all the light around him so that all that was left in the end was the barren, black emptiness of the void.

Philip Glass indeed.

* * *

James Armitage had been well known to MI5 for years now, originally targeted for his involvement with the Soviets in the late '80s. Armitage carved a name for himself through his crude approximations of espionage and his aggressive methods. Even though the Cold War was fizzling out, tension between the two states was still rippling through the atmosphere, and people like Armitage took advantage of that as means to ends. He was a gun for hire during the Soviet-Afghan War, leaving in '87 when the Soviet exit strategy was invoked. After that, Armitage popped up fighting for the highest bidder in small insurgencies worldwide throughout the nineties.

Armitage's association with Jay Trevor, if you could call it that, began in '98. Jay Trevor was a London local, made homeless at fifteen by the tragic death of his impoverished parents in a car accident. Following in the narrative, he joined a gang for a home and protection, quickly giving loyalty to the people who replaced his family. The gang was a well-known drugs distributer for the east side of London. The leader of the gang, a man often referred to as Mad Hatter, earned his title through his disorganized business practices and eccentric dealings with rivals. One of the photos in the file was of a man castrated and choking on his own member. The hold that the gang had on the east end began to slip, selling turf was lost to minor disputes, money began to go missing, and Mad Hatter was looking in bad shape. A group of the gang began thinking of insurrection, of taking back their territory and their money by placing a new man in charge. None of the gang members wanted to take the risk, so outside help was found. $250,000 was raised and a gun was hired , a friend of a friend–James Armitage.

Little is known about the ensuing rise against Mad Hatter except what NSY and by extension MI5 had been able to gather from various informants over the years. What was known was that Armitage took down Mad Hatter– clean shot through the head from the exit stairs across the street from his apartment. Hatter's death incited civil war between the gang until someone would rise to be leader. Some men stood on the side of the ones who had planned the death, others backed up their old leader. In the end, though, and after a few weeks of extreme violence on the streets of the East End, Jay Trevor, one of the men who had originally incited insurrection, came to be leader. Despite his young age of twenty five, Trevor had proven himself to be a shrewd businessman and ruthless kingpin in the territory Hatter had assigned to him. His rival, Keith Sparks, former second to Mad Hatter, only acquiesced when it became extremely apparent that his position was the minority and should he come to lead, it wouldn't be long until he too was in a body bag. Some of the informants said that Trevor won because he threatened to set Armitage on Sparks. Others say that Armitage was in and out of the area within twenty four hours of the killing and wasn't around for the aftermath. On one point, though, everyone was clear; Keith Sparks had given over leadership to Jay Trevor, then only twenty-five, with a grave promise; if Trevor in any way was deemed unfit to rule, Armitage would make an appearance again, and this time Jay Trevor would be in the body bag.

Of course, Mycroft thought, reviewing his files, this could easily be written off as typical gang rhetoric, threats of violence, etc. James Armitage had no ties to the gang other than being involved in this, and a few other, hired kills. Under the leadership of Jay Trevor, the gang secured the East End and began expanding rapidly outwards until most of London's underground owed some allegiance to the Trevor gang. He was feared and loathed and respected for those reasons. The Trevor gang bought off police, lawyers, judges, anyone who stood in their way making apprehending any but the lowliest of the gang members damn near impossible. Only the few informants NSY had been able to make talk through sentence negotiations gave any information about the rise of Jay Trevor. MI5 was involved only though their associations with James Armitage, who they had been monitoring carefully, and personal favors to London politicians. MI5 didn't usually muddle themselves with city-based kingpins, leave the legwork for New Scotland Yard.

Except now Mycroft did have a personal investment. His youngest brother was engaged in _relations _with Jay Trevor's son. James Armitage made an unexpected appearance onto the scene, worrying kingpin Trevor who didn't appear to have hired him. Was he harkening back to previous threats made my Keith Sparks? Sparks had remained in the gang, always in the passenger seat since '98. Little tension superficially existed between the two, as they were now prominent business partners and were both credited with the gang's success. However, who can say for sure?

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and tipped his cup of Earl Grey towards his mouth. Sherlock Holmes was going to be the death of him, he was sure. How Mycroft's younger brothers happened to either be caught in the middle of huge political scandals or be the cause of them fell short on him. The probabilities of their continuous coincidental involvements were so miniscule that he felt for certain they were eagerly seeking them out just to fuck with their old brother. Mycroft wasn't sure, but it certainly seemed likely.

What Mycroft _was_ certain about was that Sherlock Holmes was in very deep danger. Putting all his infernal drug use aside, if James Armitage was hired to threaten and dispose of Jay Trevor, Sherlock's association with Victor was problematic indeed. The last thing he wanted was Sherlock getting caught in the crossfires of a citywide underground coup.

And then of course there were the drugs. Mycroft had been watching the feeds of Sherlock's room the past few days. The boy had actually _been _there for once, and not even that, was just _not leaving_. It had been five days and thus far, save for the first two days, all Sherlock seemed to be doing was whirling around his room doing experiments and coursework, and blatantly shooting up and taking lines at intervals so frequent Mycroft was frankly appalled. It was unlike Sherlock to completely forget that Mycroft still had a weather eye on him, making his actions either an uncharacteristic cry for help or complete apathy. It was likely the latter. What's more, Sherlock hadn't had contact with Victor Trevor for the past few days, opening up the possibility that they were no longer in intimate associations, making Sherlock's potential involvement in the Trevor ring drama a rather moot point.

The most pragmatic option here would certainly be to just send Sherlock to rehab to get the help he so desperately needed (and had probably needed for years) and to get him as far away from the Armitage threat as possible. Or at least to find out Sherlock's present relation with Victor Trevor and his father's operations. With that information, the possibility of further protective measures could be assessed.

Mycroft picked up the phone on his desk, placing his teacup into its saucer.

"Madeline," he intoned. "Please prepare my car and cancel the meeting at 14:00 with the prime minister. I have urgent business elsewhere."

* * *

Sherlock was none too pleased to open the door to see his widely girded brother standing within its frame.

Of course, he had assumed this was coming. He hadn't forgotten about the cameras, had known from the moment he'd shot up after coming back from Sebastian's that Mycroft would eventually intervene as he _always _did. He just _didn't care_. Mycroft couldn't make him do anything he didn't want to, had nothing to bargain with.

"For fuck's sake, what are you doing here?" Sherlock roughly asked, eyeing his older brother sharply.

"I can't just have a chat with my younger brother?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "When do you ever just want to chat? I don't think we've ever chatted."

"No time like the present to start afresh."

"Seems like you've also started a new diet afresh, Mycroft. How were your sugar free biscuits with tea?"

Mycroft widened his smile as his eyes went hard at the edges. "Delicious, brother mine, perhaps you could have them if you joined me for tea."

Sherlock snorted, tossing his curls away from his face, aware all the while of his gaunt complexion, the way he swayed on the spot with the motion, and the jutting of the bones of his wrist. "Unlikely, _brother mine_."

Mycroft sighed softly, the air escaping slowly from his lungs. "Well, now that the jabs are out of the way, do you think I could come in?"

Sherlock blinked and stared at his brother as the cogs began to turn. He couldn't let Mycroft come in. If he was going to stay true to his previous threats to send Sherlock to rehab, remaining within an enclosed space where he could be easily captured was a terrible decision. The only escape was through the window and he was not looking forward to repeating that four story fall again.

"No, how about we go for a walk? I could use some fresh air," Sherlock offered instead. Mycroft's eyes narrowed slightly but he nodded after a moment. Sherlock grabbed his coat off his chair, sweeping it around and patting the lapels and pockets to check that his stash was still within the linings and his cigarettes were still in his pocket.

"Shall we?" he mocked, pushing past Mycroft to get out of the room. His older brother sidestepped him, pausing to watch him as Sherlock stalked down the hall, before following suit. Sherlock burst through the outer doors, wincing slightly as the light reflecting off the snow lanced his eyes, before whipping a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it fluidly as he stuck it in his mouth.

"Your rate of nicotine consumption is appallingly high, Sherlock."

The black-haired brother laughed, smoke escaping from his pale lips as he did so. "Your rate of consumption in general is appallingly high."

Mycroft sighed, tapping his umbrella against his toe as he stood next to his brother. "So where was it you wanted to walk to, Sherlock? We could grab lunch, you look like you could use it. And please…" Mycroft began, pausing slightly. "Do not make another poor jab at my weight. You've lost at least a stone since I last saw you."

"There's a coffee shop over there. They have some doughnuts I think you may like." Sherlock smirked and pointed over in the vague direction of the coffee shop. On the main road, easy escape route should this conversation necessitate that. He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and began to walk, his brother just a step behind him.

"So Mycroft, what is it that brings you here on this fine day. Did the North Korean elections go well, thought you'd celebrate by annoying your younger brother?"

"The North Koreans didn't have any elections recently, brother dear."

Sherlock snorted. "Last time I saw you in your bunker of an office there was paperwork on your desk that hinted at quite the opposite."

Mycroft sighed. "That paperwork was in Korean, Sherlock."

"Next time a Vignere cipher might do you a bit better."

"North Korea aside, I came here today to inquire about Victor Trevor."

Sherlock blinked, but gave no other outward indication of surprise. "Wouldn't you have more information about him, Mycroft? I recall you had a rather large file on him last time we _chatted._"

"How's he been doing lately?"

_Ah… so, Mycroft had picked up on their lack of communication_. Sherlock scoffed slightly, rebounding the pointed question. "Fine, I think? I haven't seen him in a few days. Much too busy with work."

"Yet, you haven't left your room."

"What would I leave for?"

"I don't know, I've heard that lectures are something that is part of a university curriculum."

Sherlock snorted, using the opportunity to throw Mycroft off again. "Lectures are dull, I can learn all they have to say in their hour span within five minutes and then delete all the extraneous chatter."

Mycroft paused, reminded intimately of his own interactions with Gideon while he was in university. The two of younger boys were alike in so many ways, except Gideon never felt the need to shoot up drugs to quiet the catastrophic dissonance of his mind overheating, instead using proxy servers and python scripts to satisfy himself. Mycroft shouldn't be the one standing here trying to give advice to his brother about personal management, about how the world would never line up in a straight line for the Holmes boys, how they'd always be running in loops and circles trying to figure out how to make their way. Mycroft was too cold, too obtuse and too austere to be trying to tell his brother in the only ways he knew how that he _cared._ Gideon should be here, matching cigarette with cigarette and telling Sherlock that even though the world seems to loom against you now, it will get better with time. Gideon should be the one tossing the baggie of coke that Sherlock clearly had in his lapels down to the sewer with a smirk hidden behind large black rimmed glasses, taking him out for coffee afterwards and bringing him to his apartment for the first few days of withdrawal. Gideon was capable of doing these things, and Mycroft, for all his brilliance, was not.

Instead, Mycroft took the passive route, the path of least attachment. There was a car tailing them at a distance even now, ready to leap out and apprehend Sherlock should he struggle against Mycroft's demands that he go to a rehabilitation center. He had already booked Sherlock's stay in a facility out of town, far enough away from Victor Trevor and the addictions he brought so that Sherlock had a chance of getting better.

He looked back at Sherlock as they grew closer to the main road, words forming at the edge of his mouth. Mycroft wasn't sure if he should call Sherlock out for his behavior or alert him to the dangers of Victor Trevor. Both would likely repel him more from seeing any sort of common sense, as Sherlock never enjoyed being at the receiving end of any sort of reprimanding.

Mycroft took a shot.

"I've also been noticing an array of troubling behavior, Sherlock."

His brother looked back at him, the look on his face guarded and mask-like. Mycroft wasn't sure if Sherlock had been expecting this or was trying to cover up his shock.

"I fail to understand, Mycroft," came the low reply.

"Last time we chatted I reminded you of our agreement that you remain clean from your… more unsavory habits than just your absurd rate of smoking."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his body tensed. They stood still at the edge of the pavement, right next to the street. Mycroft was aware of the car of his hirelings approaching from down the road, preparing to assist if Sherlock became unruly. Which in all honesty was rather a given.

"As someone with an eidetic memory I'm sure you can remember what I warned you the consequences would be."

And there it was, the flicker of _fire _in Sherlock's eyes as his brother called him out, made him aware of how powerless the situation was for the young junkie in front of him.

"I would be inclined to stop you from taking that path," Sherlock snarled, his hands twisting the edges of his lapels.

Mycroft smiled unkindly. "I would be inclined to show you just how well that would turn out."

Sherlock grinned, but it was the kind of grin that chilled rather than warmed, the one that made Mycroft aware once more of just how volatile and dangerous his youngest brother could be. It reminded him once more of when he had come home to find Sherlock stoned on Vicodin, of the catastrophic storm he swirled around him, feeding it with his insecurities, instability and anger.

Mycroft should have known that backing Sherlock into a corner would result in catastrophe. The truth was that for all Mycroft's brilliance, he still held his brothers in better lights than they deserved, even if he was aware of all their failings and nuisances.

Mycroft was not expecting Sherlock tolet out a loud noise at an intensity that fell somewhere between a roar and a shriek, like a wounded animal trapped with its back against a cage and then _barrel Mycroft over,_ taking off at a sprint down the street. As Mycroft toppled to the ground, hitting his head on the sidewalk at the brute force of Sherlock's affrontment, surprisingly strong for someone so malnourished, the black car down the road began to speed up, putting on emergency lights to give chase. And if Mycroft wasn't so far past the point of realizing how bleeding ridiculous his overprotective measures were, the fact that MI5 agents were giving chase to a drugged up college student running at full tilt down the street would be funny.

It wasn't particularly funny to Mycroft, and as Sherlock turned into a side street so narrow that no car could enter, leaving his agents at a loss for how to catch up to him, Mycroft swore loudly. There would be no catching his brother now, and Mycroft had alighted that rebellious flame inside Sherlock by confronting him and reminding him of the few options he truly had.

Sherlock would be more reckless now than ever before.

Mycroft lumbered up from the ground, picking up the umbrella that he had dropped and attempting to brush the snow off of his coat, even as it melted and left the wool wet. He looked down the road to where his brother had disappeared.

Mycroft's attempts at helping his brother had failed, and all the calculations that Mycroft had already made and was still making in his head resulted in one fact; Sherlock Holmes was in more danger now than he was before Mycroft had attempted to intervene.

Mycroft swore to himself, and attempted to not let the fact that his caring was hurting Sherlock cut through his pride.

* * *

When Victor arrived back to his room in the late afternoon, it was to walk into the still locked room and find Sherlock pacing restlessly throughout the small single. The sight was worrying both because Victor was unsure of what to say to the young man in front of him and because he was frightened Sherlock would pace a hole in his floor.

"Sherlock, what the fuck are you doing here? The door was locked."

Sherlock perked up a bit, as if just realizing that he wasn't the only person in the room still, and cocked his head over to where Victor was standing, blinkingly slowly. Even from where he stood Victor could see his pupils were _massive_.

"Your door… yes… well it wasn't the hardest lock to pick and even so I copied your keys a month ago," he answered slowly.

Victor frowned slightly. "Why?"

"Just…" Sherlock waved his hand. "That's unimportant right now."

Victor sighed and walked further into the room, closing the door roughly behind him. He placed his keys on the table with a clank and went to sit down at the table. He rubbed a tired hand over his face. He was so spent, his hands still shaking slightly, his knees weak, let alone the cloud Gloria's words had left hanging over his head. Victor looked over at the gangly teen who was staring at him, the white sunlight striking the back of his head through the window, etching his contours even more.

"What are you doing here?"

Sherlock remained standing rigid in the middle of the floor, a sharp contrast to the feverish pace of moments before.

"It's been five days."

Victor breathed slowly out of his nose as he closed his eyes, a twisting within his chest which confused him snaking its roots through his musculature. The need behind Sherlock's statement was enough to confuse and devastate Victor. "I'm sorry, 'Lock. I was, well, I was pretty out."

Sherlock nodded, turning his head to the left.

Victor wasn't sure what to do. Part of him didn't want Sherlock to be anywhere near him, any closer to his perpetual inferno, closer to the gun Victor was holding against the genius' temple, and another bit wanted to snort a line and fall with him onto the bed, as they had before. The room remained silent. After a moment, Sherlock turned his head to look at Victor, the winter light cutting his marble skin. There was a still moment before the scientist began to pace again.

"Is something wrong?" Victor hesitated a guess.

In response, Sherlock immediately began pacing faster, eyes wild. "No, well yes, except not something _solvable _that's the problem isn't it, can't just keep running he'll come eventually, Mycroft that is, threatened to send me to rehab, even had a car with him to take me away, fucking bastard…" With each syllable he became more erratic, his eyes flicking back and forth, his hands flapping widely around him.

"Sherlock," Victor asserted, moving towards to stuttering, stumbling young man. "Hey, Sherlock," he voiced louder. Victor grabbed Sherlock's hands roughly, bringing them closer to his chest as the other boy pulled away. He looked into the cerulean blue eyes, surprised to see that behind the large pupils were shades of fear, anger, and anxiety, all things that were not commonplace with Sherlock Holmes. "What's up?" Victor asked softly, looking slightly up into the blue just an inch above.

He nearly flinched when Sherlock's eyes turned hungry, a feral grin spreading across the raven-haired young man's face as heat pooled into Victor's groin. _Good lord, this wasn't how this was supposed to happen, he was supposed to go…_

Their lips met in a rough kiss, with even rougher fingers quickly dancing around the edges of the fabric on the other. Sherlock's clumsy cocaine tongue pushed away the heroin cobwebs still left within Victor's head, as the two, clothes now on the ground, made their way towards Victor's twin bed. Victor panted slightly, pulling his blonde hair away from his forehead as he lightly bit on the bottom of Sherlock's lip.

Minutes later, when Victor's back finally cracked with the bright electricity of orgasm, it didn't take long for the fleeting ecstasy to give way to a deep dread.

No matter what, Sherlock would keep coming back to him, hungry for more. And as much as Victor wanted to turn him away, if only to satiate the black hole of guilt twisting in his stomach, he also _hungere__d_ for Sherlock, for his wildness and darkness and mystery, for his fire and addiction to both cocaine and Victor.

And Victor was never one to resist something he wanted so badly.

Sherlock had erased himself to find Victor, and Victor was terrible at trying to redraw the pieces.


	9. Underbelly

"So, Sherlock, can we revisit why exactly you have a copy of my key now?" Victor asked, rolling onto his side, pulling the comforter closer to himself as chilled wind blew through his thin glass windows. He still had a raging headache from his past few days, and was in need of a coffee and sandwich if he was going to even try stopping these shakes.

Sherlock raised his head to look at his companion. The blue light glistening through the window carved out the hollows of the junkie's face, making him appear even more alabaster, even more skeletal and angular than he had before. His lean, white hands were fiddling with the lapels of the jacket lying on the chair behind him, as he pulled out his small baggie of cocaine and his pack of cigarettes. As he lit a stick, he grinned slightly.

"I always need my bolt holes, for when things go south with Mycroft." He fiddled some more with his jacket, apparently satisfied that that was an acceptable answer for breaking into someone's apartment. He turned back towards Victor. "Do you have any clean needles? I'm out, and I'd really rather not do a line."

"Yeah," Victor replied, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and pulling on some pants before stalking over to the dresser in the corner. He opened the top drawer and pulled out the newly wrapped diabetic syringe lying next to his mess of unfolded socks. "Here," he murmured as he walked over and placed the needle in front of Sherlock. In this light, from this angle, as he looked at Sherlock, at the jutting ribs, the concave of his stomach and the way the jeans which had fit snuggly when they had first met were hanging off his body, he felt a wave of _something_ move through him. "So, things have gone south then, with your brother?"

Sherlock waited for a moment before replying, as he pulled out a spoon from the jacket of his pocket. He poured 50 mg of the cocaine into the spoon, and filled the syringe a little less than halfway with the bottle of water that always sat on Victor's desk. He shot the water into the spoon and let the powder dissolve before turning to face Victor. "Yes, things have gone south with my menacing older brother. I wouldn't be surprised if he is already on his way here now to try and find me. Given that he knows of our…" Sherlock seemed to search for a proper word, his hands still flying over the instruments in front of him. "Association," he finished, waving a hand nonchalantly. Sherlock dug out a cigarette from his pack and snapped the filter off before placing it in the spoon, and sucking up the liquid through the filter. Victor tried not to acknowledge the drop in his stomach at the very _clinical _label on their relationship.

"Yeah, okay, but what happened?"

"He tried to send me to rehab," Sherlock sighed as he brought the needle towards a vein without tying off his arm. He poked around for a moment, breathing through his nose as he pricked his skin, before he found a hit, drawing up a tiny amount of blood into the syringe. "He tried to get government officials to chase me down to send me to rehab. Started it under the pretense of a chat. 'Course, I knew that he was going to be coming around sooner or later, what with the cameras and all. Keeps them in my room at all times ever since my… fall." Sherlock exhaled as he shot the syringe deep into his arm, closing his eyes. The image was very much like some macabre tableau. He breathed steadily for a few moments before opening his eyes and looking back towards Victor, seemingly pleased with the surprise on his face. "He might even have installed some cameras here."

Victor wasn't entirely sure if Sherlock was serious or if he was saying that to mess with him. He didn't appreciate either.

"Your brother keeps cameras trained on you 24 hours a day?" Victor asked, incredulously. "That's.. well, that's…"

"Bleeding ridiculous," Sherlock finished for him. "However, what I may not have made entirely clear earlier is that my brother may be one of the most dangerous men you could possibly interface with, Victor. He knows _everything_, every secret you don't want revealed, every pressure point you have, he _knows _it and he's analyzed how best to take you down with the least amount of personal effort for himself. He's lazy that way, fat bastard. He has access to every security camera, every phone call, every move you make that could leave any trace. Mycroft is… well, he's much easier to deal with when he's just messing around with some local terrorist threat or eating cakes at the Diogenes Club, but he seems to always enjoy putting particularly personal attention to me. For," he waved a hand. "Whatever reason. My well being or _whatever_."

"Well, we can't stay here, then, can we?"

The shadow of a grin flickered away and Victor was met once more with the impassive, icy face of a man trying his best to not allow his emotions be seen.

"No," Sherlock said slowly. "I cannot."

Victor felt at once relieved and panicked. On one hand, Sherlock was now caught up in a game that Victor felt very positive would end with him being caught by his brother and sent to rehab. Which would be the best thing for him at this point, and when he got out, Victor would be gone, out of his life, taking his toxicity with him, let Sherlock heal. On the other, Sherlock also seemed to be getting into something very much over his head, and the idea of him living on the streets for the next who knows how long didn't bode well for him getting any better. As much as Victor selfishly wanted to keep him, to shackle Sherlock to himself, to make him scream his name and tie off his arm and validate his actions, Victor also was slowly realizing that in the end burning Sherlock up would end Victor Trevor as well. He fed off Sherlock almost as much as Sherlock fed off him, and if the raven-haired scientist ended up over the edge… then Victor would end there as well.

Victor let out a long sigh. He was once again well aware of the dull, pulsing pain that seemed to be radiating from just beneath his eyeballs, flush with his temples, and the way he was still shaking, even though he was away from the cold window.

"Where will you go?"

"There are many places in London that Mycroft doesn't have authority. Many places he can't find me, and would never even think to look."

And Victor thought of his father, of the underbelly of London which he knew so well. Of how he had also ran away from his family, and how well that had ended up for him. How in the end, he couldn't escape choosing between whoring and freelance street work, how he couldn't escape being addicted to the needle, whatever drug it held, and how that money never seemed to be enough to get him out of the hole he had dug for himself. Sherlock wouldn't survive in that society, this genius who had a knack for pissing off everyone he talked to, and wouldn't submit to anyone telling him what to do. Victor barely had, only making it out after his pimp had tossed him out after the amount of drugs Victor needed to stay sane didn't leave much of a profit for him. He had stayed in a string of apartments with a string of lovers the next few months, one of which worked in administration at Oxford. It was she who had suggested he apply for scholarship. He had stayed with her for as long as the processing of his application, and when he got in he cut out hard and fast.

_You and I both know that Sherlock doesn't belong in the world that we live in._

"I can help you," Victor mumbled, letting air out through his nose. "Sherlock, I can, I can help you get somewhere safe. I know London and I know the places that no one can find. Let me help you."

Victor knew that Sherlock would never agree, but he felt it right to at least try.

"Mycroft will come to speak with you soon, if he isn't already on his way. He's good at reading people, Victor, he'll know if you're lying about my location. I can't take the risk."

"Is rehab really bad enough to make you run away?"

Sherlock's face hardened as he stared icily at Victor. There was a moment of static silence between the pair, which Victor felt in his bones, before Sherlock responded softly, turning his face towards the window. "It's more than the drugs. It's about not having my brother be in control of my life."

It was one of the most personal things Sherlock had ever divulged to him, and Victor didn't know how to respond. He stood there, awkwardly running a hand through his hair before donning a twisted smile.

"Well," Victor said, picking up a shirt off the floor and tugging it over his head, looking around for his jeans. "I suggest we get some coffee then. And maybe a doughnut."

The flicker of a grin returned to Sherlock's face as cool, blue eyes followed him from across the room, rippling over the marble façade of moments before. He blew smoke silkily out of his mouth from the cigarette that had been burning untouched for the last few minutes.

Victor had never been sure if Sherlock was more remote or more open when he was high. It was a rather infrequent occurrence that Victor even saw him sober. Yet, the last few minutes had been surprisingly lucid, no facades. The honesty left Victor scrambling with his emotions, and instinctively longing for another hit.

_You've convinced Sherlock that he can only find stability in the least stable of places._

Victor's stomach dropped a bit from under him. He ran a hand hastily though his hair and placed a Cheshire grin onto his face, as he looked around the room for his jacket. "Yeah, a doughnut, that would be good." He found his jacket lying on the ground next to his dresser and swung it over his shoulders, patting his pockets to make sure he had his lighter and cigarettes. "How about we go out, 'Lock? Get some fresh air. Make it harder for your brother and all."

Sherlock stood, sweeping his own coat around himself, patting himself down in a mirror of Victor's previous actions. "I'll leave after." Sherlock paused for a moment. "Mycroft will come here asking for me, Victor. When he does, don't underestimate him." A slow, dark smirk tugged at the genius' lips. "Even though it's hard to take him seriously, what with him looking like a whale and all."

* * *

Mycroft came to visit him just an hour after he'd left Sherlock at the coffee shop down the road. Victor had watched the black-haired teen's back retreating, his black peacoat in stark contrast with the grey's and dimmed blues that the city offered on a chilly March day.

Victor opened his door to find what could only be Sherlock's brother on his doorstep. He was met with the same clear, blue eyes, the same look that was at once both destructive and constructive, tearing apart the data given to them and piecing together the puzzle once again to form a conclusion. That and the aggressively expensive suit and the two bodyguards on either side of the man sort of gave it away. Mycroft also wore a new expression, one of complete disdain and contempt, making it entirely clear just what his opinion of Victor Trevor was.

"Mycroft, I presume," Victor said, moving back slightly as the men in front of him loomed towards him.

"Mr. Trevor," Mycroft responded. "It's a pleasure." He did not sound pleased.

"Mr. Trevor is my father, please call me Victor." Victor tried to appear nonchalant as he tossed his blonde hair back from his face. Instead, the action made him feel childish as the man in front of him continued to fix him with the same unamused stare.

"Oh, I am very aware of your father, Mr. Trevor. Or J.T. as I believe he is referred to."

Victor's eyes narrowed while Mycroft's face remained as impassive as ever.

"Why are you here?" he murmured, his tone verging on a growl. "If you want questions answered about my father, I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place."

Mycroft approximated a laugh. "No, certainly not. We have all the information we need about _J.T._, Mr. Trevor. No," Mycroft looked down to his shoes as he tapped them lightly with his black umbrella. "No, I am here today to inquire about a Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I have some urgent business with him, and know he usually frequents your company."

Victor laughed, though he was not amused. "He said you would show up here. Even said you probably had cameras in here by now. Which, if you did, you would know that Sherlock left hours ago. I hope you don't have cameras, by the way. If you did, you would be seeing a lot of…intimate…things that I would imagine you wouldn't care for."

"So my brother did come here, Mr. Trevor," Mycroft asked in a tone that clearly indicated just how microscopic his regard for Victor was.

"Yeah, he also said you'd be chasing him. Weird thing to do, that. I don't have siblings myself, but I don't think that obsessive tracking is part of the typical duties of an older brother." He was trying to keep the conversation light, trying to throw Mycroft off with his charm. Mycroft did not seem to be taking it.

"Mr. Trevor, the only thing that I am remotely interested in is the whereabouts of my young brother, and since you have already admitted to being the last person who saw him, I would like you to divulge me in a tale of his _location _if you wouldn't mind. Leave your nonsensical chatting out of it."

Victor's eyes narrowed and his shoulders hunched slightly towards his ears. "God, Sherlock really did come out on the right side of the gene pool." He sighed, combing his hands through his hair as Mycroft's umbrella repeatedly tapped at his feet. "Said you were a right fine arse hole, Sherlock did. Said you had a superiority complex to boot. I told him that there must be more to you than that. Seems I was wrong." Victor looked back up Mycroft, his features becoming stoic and solid. "Thing is, I've heard a lot of things about you Mycroft Holmes. How you place cameras in your brother's private rooms, coerce him into meetings and "tea", send cars to chase him around London to send him to rehab without a warning, how you are so icy and remote that you didn't even give a damn when your own brother died while in your care. Yeah," Victor responded to the tightening of Mycroft's eyes. "I heard about that too."

Mycroft let a carefully calculated tense moment rise between them before continuing.

"As much as standing here and letting a person such as yourself attempt to debase me is _amusing, _I will repeat my objective for the visit. Where is Sherlock Holmes?"

"Took a train to London. That's all I know."

Mycroft stared at him sharply, his eyes softly flitting over the entirety of Victor's face as if comparing the features seen in front of him with a snapshot of his face taken from moments before. Victor felt like a specimen smeared thin over a glass slide and mounted under a microscope. It was not a feeling he particularly enjoyed.

"It seems you are correct in that regard," Mycroft finally sighed. "You are quite fortunate that I do not regard you as a particularly good liar, otherwise you would have had quite the rough time when I brought you to headquarters for questioning. Or when I had the police come around and detain you for possession and selling of illicit substances."

Victor paled slightly, then remembered what Sherlock had said. _He knows every pressure point you have._ Obviously, he was probably aware about the dealing, then. Of course Mycroft would have used that against him should the need arise. Sherlock had been right, he couldn't let anyone help him for fear of Mycroft forcibly picking up the trail.

Mycroft seemed to draw his weight towards himself for a moment, filling the doorway just a little more. "Before I take my leave, Mr. Trevor, I will inform you that should Sherlock Holmes give you any indication of his whereabouts at all, you need only tell me and you will receive quite a handsome monetary donation on my behalf. Enough, perhaps, to quit your unsavory secondary occupation and actually keep up the grades you are required to maintain as a scholarship student."

Victor's mouth lay agape as the veritable mountain that was Sherlock's brother clicked away, the clacking of his umbrella on the floor echoing rhythmically down the hallway.

Sherlock had discarded his jacket and button down shirt at a local thrift shop in Peckham as soon as he got off the train, instead picking up a ratty sweatshirt and t-shirt in exchange. With his hair mussed in front of his face and his off-white trainers, he looked just unassuming enough that few people would bother hassling him.

He hadn't wandered the streets long to realize two things, the first being that Victor had been correct in his description of this region of London. As it neared sundown, Sherlock became acutely aware of the acerbic taste of danger in the air as darkness began to shroud the streets. Despite his camouflage, he quickly realized that sleeping in this area at night was a risky proposition, and not one he was willing to take without proper surveillance and cataloguing of Peckham's streets and occurrences at various time intervals.

Gloria had never been good at her job as an undercover agent.

She had the look for her job, the knowledge to analyze and categorize the people she interacted with, and both of these factors were why she had been placed in the position she was. That and the fact that she could still come up positive for drugs and not have to sit at a desk all day, made the situation all rather convenient for her.

No, Gloria thought, the problem wasn't in the job, but rather in how she was completely _shit _at distinguishing which part of her double life were for the job or for herself.

Victor Trevor was a perfect example of this. They had become acquaintances from her original infiltration, perfectly calculated by NSY. Befriending Victor Trevor hadn't been hard, especially when he was off his face at a rave on the South Side. Getting back to his place that night hadn't been difficult either, and despite her still trying to spill him her rehearsed backstory, it had even been enjoyable. From then on, keeping close to Victor had been as easy as sending a text message if she wanted to see him. They'd grown close easily, especially after she'd made it clear that she didn't want a romantic relationship, something Victor would inevitably fuck up, creating distance that was bad for her job. A relationship would also have been bad for Victor's job, as he was still working nights downtown.

Gloria had known plenty of people like Victor Trevor in her days at university. The thin, keen boys with the sly smiles and a willingness to share in whatever drug they'd chosen for the night as long as they were rewarded later. They had all been fun, and fast, and regrettable. Victor Trevor, was fun and fast and honest and kind and all manner of things that seemed impossible given the write up NSY had on him. Befriending him was easy, doing her job was not.

It was fortunate that Victor didn't have much of a relationship with his father, and therefore had very little information on the gang that NSY wanted her to find out about. For all NSY's inhuman calculations, they had never considered that Victor Trevor might actually actively avoid his father. Gloria's reports back were largely uneventful, which had caused some frustration on her boss' part. He'd even threatened to have her pull out a couple times unless she got some information. There were other agents out there, of course, some deeper in than her collecting actual useful data about the gang. Her placement was an easy one, relatively safe, and enjoyable. For NSY, it was a shot in the dark and one that seemed to be missed.

That is, until Victor Trevor decided to sell, Jay Trevor had forced himself back into Victor's life, and the whole business with the rumored Armitage had started.

At this point, Gloria was starting to realize the gravity of her situation. Not only the dealing and the gang, but that sooner or later she would have to betray Victor. She might even have to betray Sherlock. She would have to sell them out and cut out hard as soon as NSY felt it was time to move in. Victor's willing realignment with his father's gang, something she never thought would happen, had made the job she had once found easy, incredibly difficult. Every choice she made, she had to ask herself if it was for her job, or if it was for her.


End file.
